The Best Possible World
by FrontButts
Summary: An AU where the Red Dinner went as planned- where Will helped Hannibal to kill Jack and escaped with him to Europe. How would the rest of season three have panned out from there?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Will leans back in the reclining airline seat, closing his eyes and trying to still his beating heart. In his mind he can still feel blood coating his arms and neck, gluey and prisonlike, and he wonders why the stewardess and his fellow passengers do not scream at the gorey sight of him. He feels panic clawing at his throat and he tries to will it away, but it won't stop and oh _god_ what if someone knows them _what has he done-_

Feeling like he's slowly suffocating, Will turns his head to look at the seat next to him. Hannibal is occupied with ordering two glasses of champagne ( _"Votre meilleur, s'il vous plaît"_ ) and doesn't even glance at Will, but just the sight of him seems to slow Will's sprinting pulse. _Look at him_ , so calm and composed, liquid metal sitting in the airplane seat like it's a throne- nothing is wrong. Nothing will go wrong. They are in control of the situation.

Will closes his eyes for a moment and exhales through his nose, focusing on the sensations around him; the velvetlike felt upholstery of the chair, the faintly oppressive atmosphere of the cabin, the smells of travel and airplane food and the faintest hint of blood-

No.

Again he glances at Hannibal, hoping to somehow catch his eye without having to try and speak. Hannibal is staring at the seat in front of him, his expression completely unassuming and motionless. His hands are folded in his lap, and his head is leaning back, his eyes partially closed.

"You seem troubled, Will."

Will opens his mouth for a moment, then closes it again, resentment bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He feels belittled, but the bitterness dissipates as Hannibal glances at him through his peripheral vision.

"I'm having trouble reconciling the two realities we've been through today," he says finally, and even though he's calmed a bit, there's still a sour twist in his tone.

"That's to be expected, I think," Hannibal seems to be mulling over the events Will is describing as he speaks. "The transition can be a bit jarring."

"It..." Will glances around. Day is breaking outside the cabin windows, and everything inside seems to be coming across in tones of yellow and white. He squints. "It feels like the kickback of firing a rifle. Everything is too quiet."

"...but your ears still ring," Hannibal finishes. The majority of the passengers around them are asleep, but his voice is still low.

"My ears are ringing," Will says. Hannibal nods.

"When we land in Paris, we will have six hours to secure a position for ourselves before the airlines are alerted to our...status." Hannibal casually scans the aisles of the cabin for any stewards. He seems to be suppressing a slight grin. "They will have found Jack by now."

Will swallows.

The plan really went much more smoothly than he expected. Hannibal's aim was, as always, completely true, and they were able to slip away with very little commotion. Jack was dead before he hit the ground.

Will still isn't entirely sure that what is happening around him is real. He struggles to fully grasp what he- no, they- have done. Jack's body is currently slumped across Hannibal's dining table, and he, Will, played an explicit role in the series of events that led to it being there. The details of the event, when he pictures them in his mind's eye, seem vague and transparent, as if he could just as easily have aided Jack in doing the same to Hannibal. Both possibilities seem just as likely.

And yet, here he is.

The stewardess returns with their champagne. Hannibal thanks her in murmured French, and Will manages a stiff jerk of the head by way of gratitude. He tries not to grip the glass too tightly, and takes a sip in an effort to calm his racing thoughts. Hannibal is completely absorbed in his champagne, raising the flute to his lips as if it is the real reason he boarded this flight in the first place. Will hates him for it.

When the stewardess's form has receded into the economy section of the plane, Will drains his glass and sighs.

"So who do we have to kill to acquire our new living arrangements?"

Hannibal glances at Will for a brief moment, trying to determine whether or not he's joking. He eventually deigns to answer seriously.

"No one, at the moment," he says, taking another agonizingly small sip of champagne. "I own an apartment in the 6th Arrondissement."

"Of course you do," Will says. Hannibal ignores this.

"We should be able to stay there for a few weeks, if we are lucky," he continues. "After that, however, we will have to move house."

"Seems like a good length for a honeymoon," Will leans back in his chair and glances out the window. He doesn't quite want to see Hannibal's expression. He hears Hannibal resume his previous statuesque position of folded hands and blank expressions, and closes his eyes. He has seven hours and twenty-four minutes before he is fully thrust into Hannibal's world, as it were. Just a few hours until any guise of stability he might have had in his life is whisked away. A few precious, untouchable moments before he is completely at the mercy of the man who might've left him for dead, or worse. Seven hours and twenty-three minutes of peace.

xxxxx

"Are you done yet?" Will calls, not quite able to bring himself to move. He sits in a chair in the respectable living room of Hannibal's Paris apartment, his hands on his knees, his ears full of the sounds of the shower. They'd both gotten most of the blood off while still in Baltimore, and Hannibal had thoughtfully provided a change of clothes for each of them following the aftermath of Jack's last supper, but Will knows neither of them feel completely clean- they simply hadn't had the time. Now Hannibal is in the shower, and Will is beginning to wonder if he'll ever get out. Will can feel his skin crawling- he wants to wipe away every trace of what had happened in Hannibal's house in Baltimore. He wants to start fresh, away from any memory of that time and before. He wants Hannibal to help him forget.

"There is soap in the cupboard over the sink, Will," Will looks up to see that Hannibal has already moved from the bathroom into the bedroom without him noticing, leaving a trail of wet footprints over the hardwood floors. He stands up and crosses the living room, approaching the door to the bathroom at the far end of room. The bathroom is still humid, and the moisture clings to his hair and skin, leaving him feeling even more trapped than before. He finds a second towel already laid out for him and the shower still running.

The bathroom is one of the most quintessentially "Hannibal" things Will has ever seen, bar a fully prepared dinner table. The entire room is done in muted golds, which contrast and complement the earth tones of the living room and foyer. The shower takes up a full half of the floor space, with a frosted glass panel separating the toiletries from the bathing area. All of the faucets and piping are elegant, modern brass. Will finds the aforementioned soap exactly where Hannibal said it would be, and steps into the shower after leaving his clothes in a small bin alongside what he recognizes as Hannibal's suit- presumably both will be burned. He knows he won't miss them.

The day has been surprisingly uneventful- Will isn't quite sure what he expected, but he and Hannibal transitioned peacefully from the airport to the apartment via a cab and went about their routine as planned. No hurried getaway car, no paranoid shutting of the curtains wherever they went, no hushed conversations or hidden weapons. They may as well have been on a tranquil vacation. He feels at ease in his new surroundings, and it unnerves him greatly.

Will watches the water go down the drain, and notices a few straggling flakes of dried blood streaming off of his body along with it. _It's probably Jack's_ , he realizes with slight revulsion. The idea of remnants of Baltimore following him to this quiet place cause him to shudder involuntarily; it's almost as if he can hear K9 units picking up the scent trail back at the Washington International. After a few moments, the water runs clear, and Will shuts off the faucets and exits the shower.

The living room is empty, so Will makes his way into the bedroom to find Hannibal already fully dressed. He is buttoning his sleeves at the wrist in front of a mirror that faces the bed, and he doesn't look up when Will enters. However, Will knows that he sees him in the mirror by the way his expression changes.

"You seem calmer, Will," Hannibal says. "Have you reconciled our two realities?"

"I feel more at ease being in a country where the federal government isn't concerned with my existence," Will concedes. "Yet."

" _Our_ existence," Hannibal turns to face Will, who realizes that he is still wearing nothing but the towel around his waist. "We are no longer separate entities. Not in the eyes of the law, or of each other."

"Is that so?" Will raises his eyebrows.

" _I_ think so," Hannibal says. He tosses Will a button down shirt and a pair of pants. "Killing Jack was the final act in leaving behind your previous self. You have reached a higher plane."

" _Your_ plane, you mean," Will dresses while Hannibal respectfully turns away. There is a pause. Hannibal seems amused by Will's words.

"Yes," he says after a moment, turning to find Will almost finished with buttoning his shirt.

"Then this was the ultimate goal," Will says, adjusting his collar.

"Yes."

"This is what you wanted for me," Hannibal turns at Will's statement, seeming surprised and almost offended. "What you wanted to _happen_ to me."

"This is what I wanted for us. Nothing happened to you, Will. You became."

Will is silent. He sits on the edge of the bed, processing the conversation. The words turn over in his mind, falling into place alongside the events of the previous evening and everything leading up to it. He became. And so he becomes.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Several days and nights pass in this manner. Will and Hannibal rarely speak. They exchange glances and understanding when they rise each morning before the sun does- Will because sleep has never agreed with him and Hannibal because he cannot possibly do everything he wants to if he wakes at a normal hour. There are brief words over breakfast, mostly discussing how to go about their day as inconspicuously as possible. When they go out into the world, they communicate by touch- brushing hands in a crowd, shoulders touching on the metro, Hannibal's fingertips lingering on Will's back when it is time to leave. Most times, Will goes where Hannibal goes, for the simple reason that when he is left alone he feels as if the ceilings will come crashing down around him.

Occasionally, at the behest of Hannibal, the two go on nighttime excursions to various parties, presentations, and premiers, engaging in Parisian high society as silent, gracious observers. Will finds that he understands little, considering he does not speak most of the languages they encounter (though Hannibal will translate at Will's request) and has no interest in the things Hannibal discusses with the intellectual community of Paris. However, tonight is different- as they prepare themselves, Hannibal speaks for one of the first times that day.

"Tonight will be our final night in Paris, Will," he says as he combs his hair. "I've bought the tickets for our three a.m. flight to Rome."

"Rome," Will repeats, doing and undoing the cufflinks on his jacket. "Where we'll reinvent ourselves yet again." He frowns at Hannibal's back, a sudden thought occurring to him- one that, with its' surfacing, makes him unbearably curious. "Have you ever had to reinvent yourself before, Hannibal?"

"There have been times where I've had to leave my previous self behind," he says finally, walking past Will without looking at him. "Though that was a long time ago." Hannibal is in the bathroom now, and Will smells cologne. "What about you?" Hannibal asks, catching him off guard. "Have you ever reinvented yourself?"

Will can't help but chuckle, though the sound is a bit bitter. "I'm reinventing myself right now," he says. "Every minute of every day, I'm something different than what I was."

"And who are your personae for?" Hannibal has returned to the bedroom, in the midst of tying a tie. "Me, or everyone else?"

"Myself, mostly," Will replies. His hands are in knots on his knees. "Though I'm beginning to think I'm most...gathered when I'm-" He hesitates, but what's the point now? He and Hannibal are intertwined, guilty of the same crime and as invested in each other as they are in themselves. "-When I'm with you."

There is a moment of silence. Hannibal turns and looks down at Will. He 's still dressing himself and fussing over the details of his attire, but his attention is not on his clothes. He seems to be looking for something, though Will isn't sure what it might be. The seconds stretch farther than they should, and they're being drawn into each other's faces the longer they look. Then Hannibal smiles, and it is the first genuine smile Will has seen since the night of Jack's death.

The taxi ride to the small book premier they are attending is traveled in complete silence, with Will acutely aware of each time a bump in the road causes Hannibal's arm to brush against his. At one point he realizes that they are both gazing at each other through their peripheral vision, and he narrows his eyes and focuses his attention on the unaware cab driver in front of him. For once, Jack's face doesn't swim in his mind's eye the way it normally might during an introspective moment.

At the party, if one could call it that, Will and Hannibal seat themselves comfortably in a corner of the room, sipping more of that all-too-sweet champagne that Will is coming to despise. The room is milling with various authors and "artists," and a low murmur of conversation in several different languages fills the space between the people and the trays of food and drink. Will catches bits of English amongst the foreign words, mostly regarding the work of the main beneficiary of the night, Dr. Roman Fell. He glances at Hannibal next to him, who appears to also be drinking in the conversation around them as he surveys the room over the tip of his glass. He knows the look.

Someone is going to die.

As this thought passes through Will's mind, he finds that his stomach doesn't turn as it might have in the past. Though he has seen Hannibal kill before, many times, this seems like it will be different- and he is interested in witnessing it. Something has shifted, and he feels that this murder, whatever and whoever it might be, will change them. It will change him.

"What is it?" he asks Hannibal, who is still staring out over the party attendees with an intensity that might worry an outsider. " _Who_ is it?"

"Doctor Fell is due to depart for Italy in two days' time," Hannibal replies mildly, taking a sip of his champagne. "Although he may find that his flight is leaving early."

"Doctor Fell," Will echoes, following Hannibal's gaze to an ageing man who is the center of his own small social circle, chatting animately. He remembers what little conversation he bothered to listen to that evening. "The novelist."

"In certain senses of the word," Hannibal says, and Will senses a derogatory sarcasm in his tone. He smiles slightly. Though this murder may be a necessity in terms of their practical getaway (for a reason he cannot yet fathom), Hannibal's personal opposition to whatever aura Fell gives off can't help but color his decision, and Will finds the ultimate aesthetic purpose behind Hannibal's actual needs to be endearing.

Fell chooses to leave the party early, and when he does, Hannibal and Will silently rise to follow him. They take note of where his car is parked, and they follow him to his house. All the while the two don't speak a word to each other. A few times Will glances at Hannibal's shoulders in front of him and wants to say something, but he almost feels as if speaking aloud would shatter whatever atmosphere they have created. It feels like sacrilege.

It is easy to enter Doctor Fell's house; he is a rich, confident man who is drunk on celebration. He has no need for locked doors. The house is completely empty, too- Fell's wife, it seems, is away and there are no other members of the household. Will immediately understands why Hannibal chose this man. Fell is too jubilant- his wealth and his good fortune have given way to excess and arrogance. It goes beyond cruelty or justice to take these things away from him. At this point, it is comical.

Fell only has his jacket half-off when Hannibal strikes. Quickly and quietly, he dislocates Fell's shoulder with a smart twist and sends him sprawling with a blow to the back. Will watches from the doorway of the main entrance, feeling a bizarre, unsettling mixture of disgust and awe. The fluidity of the motions, the sharp, dry intake of breath as Fell realizes he is in too much pain even to scream, how the muted light of dusty twenty-year-old wire lightbulbs sends cold, thin shadows in all directions- the sights and sounds of the man's incapacitation are dancelike to Will. And yet, another part of him, a part that seems to carry with it the persistent image of Jack's face in his final moments, screams that _this is not right_. It's just another body to add to the pile- his and Hannibal's. Just as pointlessly cruel as any other murder, no more necessary or valuable.

And _yet…_

"He isn't dead yet," Will says, surprising both himself and Hannibal. After a moment Hannibal nods, and it seems almost encouraging.

"It's hardly fair that I should do all the work this time," he says, disentangling himself from Fell's rigid, gasping form. He steps back, and both he and Will stare at Fell as he chokes out deep, rattling breaths. Will sighs.

"What's the point?" he asks. "How is this any different from killing Jack?"

"Jack's death was necessary," Hannibal replies simply. His eyes are no longer on Fell, and he tracks Will's every movement with the same attention he gave the partygoers not two hours previously. "This death is a part of your becoming. Your reinvention, as you put it."

Will understands what Hannibal does not say more than what he does. Though it sickens him in the part of his mind and his heart that he knows Jack or Alana would tell him to listen to, he knows what Hannibal means, and he understands. This death is not meaningless. Though they might not gain anything vital, though it might not change their lives in any perceptible physical way, this death carries great gravity, considering their situation. This death, Will realizes, is a rare moment in their lives.

This death is meant to be _enjoyed_.

Instinctively, Will glances around the room. The foyer is small, but he finds what he needs and he utilizes it. Standing on Fell's immobilized arm (as if he needed to incapacitate him any further), Will lifts an umbrella stand from beside the door and drives it once, twice, three times into the soft area where Fell's neck and jaw meet, just above his Adam's apple. The first time Fell's windpipe is crushed; the second time he begins to spit blood; by the third time his eyes have rolled back into his head and his breathing has slowed to a steady gurgle. Will steps back quickly so as not to get blood on his shoes, and Hannibal joins him as they watch Fell bleed out onto his own floors.

That night on the plane, Will is distinctly calmer than he was on their flight from Baltimore. He doesn't dwell on it much, though. He's just glad he doesn't have to bother with airplane food, since they ate before arriving at the airport.

xxxxx


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

When Will and Hannibal arrive in Italy and take the hour and a half flight from Rome to Palermo, Sicily, Hannibal busies himself with a laptop stolen from the late Doctor Fell and attempts to catch up on the goings-on of the FBI as it follows in their wake, while Will attempts to catch up on his sleep schedule.

It takes Hannibal a moment to bypass security passcodes, but soon he has found an English-speaking news website on the plane's free wifi. It seems that the cause of death for Jack Crawford has been ruled to be asphyxiation by means of the lungs filling with blood and other fluid. There have been few leads on the whereabouts of his killers, but authorities had been notified of several airline ticket purchases made in the Lecter name, though they all were for flights to farflung corners of the Earth. It would take FBI a week at the least to determine which of the flights, if any, had been boarded.

This is all expected discourse to Hannibal- of course, he had prepared for all this occurring long in advance. However, something unexpected catches his eye. As he browses the "similar articles" section, he finds a link to another website, this one far less reputable than the one the official new story is on. This site is no _Tattlecrime_ , to be sure, but it doesn't seem the type to have high standards about what it publishes. Hannibal clicks the link.

" _Mutilated Millionaire Puts Three Million On the Head of Hannibal Lecter."_ The article is the account of an "amateur bounty hunter" who was contacted by men in Mason Verger's employ regarding the capture of "wanted serial murderer Hannibal Lecter." There is a photo included, a grainy screencapture of a Skype conversation, presumably between Verger and the anonymous bounty hunter- but Hannibal notices a second face in the image, one that the writers of the article must not have recognized. He chuckles to himself.

"What's so funny?" Hannibal glances over to his right. Will is awake, adjusting himself so that he is sitting upright.

"It seems we are in high demand," Hannibal says. He turns the laptop so Will can see the image.

"So Alana and Mason have put a price on our heads," Will leans back in his seat, staring out the window of the plane.

"On my head," Hannibal corrects him. He scrolls down and reads further, smirking. "Although, Mason has offered a bonus for 'Lecter's pet empath.'"

Will grimaces, and tries to hide it from Hannibal's amused gaze.

"So now it's a question of who gets to us first," he says, watching the Mediterranean Sea float by beneath them in oversaturated blues and greens. "The FBI or Mason's hired police force."

"It's a question of which we'd prefer," Hannibal replies, shutting the laptop. "Mason wants us alive- it seems he's been overcome by the notion of revenge." The entertainment in Hannibal's voice is not lost on Will. "The FBI has no need for our continued existence. Jack's absence leaves us with little chance of being taken back to Baltimore in one piece." The plane lands and they both stand, lowering the tone of their conversation so it blends seamlessly into the background murmur of the other passengers. Will hands Hannibal their single duffel bag of belongings with a skeletal grin.

"And _Doctor Fell_ will be waiting for them with open arms," he says. Hannibal doesn't respond, but Will knows he is still highly amused by the way his eyes glitter as they step off the plane into their next reality.

xxxxx

Three months pass. Will and Hannibal spend their time in Sicily in sets of fourteen days, living in a different part of the city during each interval (all under Doctor Fell's name) and reinventing themselves each time. Will finds that Jack's face has faded in his mind's eye, and he rarely is interrupted by terrors in the night anymore. There is a vagueness, a blurred line around the edge of his thoughts that has begun to lift the longer he and Hannibal remain in Sicily and in each other's company. There isn't one particular day which he can pinpoint as the moment of transformation, but rather he sees it in the way that Hannibal wanted him to; he is becoming something else. And he is finding that he doesn't mind in the slightest. There is a certain day several weeks into their Italian existence where he catches a glimpse of himself in the window of a store and finds that he doesn't quite recognize himself unless he really looks- but it isn't as if he is watching a stranger. Instead, it seems to Will that he is seeing his own reflection for the first time.

On a quiet night several months into their stay, Will and Hannibal are eating dinner at a tiny table in their latest hotel suite's kitchen in Palermo. Like most of their meals since they have arrived in Europe, they eat in silence, almost as if in remembrance of past dinners they shared, nearly a lifetime ago. The hotel is not the best this time around; Sicily only has so many luxury villas, and they don't want to draw too much attention to themselves too often. Their meal is stunningly ordinary, though Hannibal tried his best to perform to his usual standards. As Will eats, he becomes aware of the fact that their life no longer revolves around fleeing- rather, they are merely practicing subtlety.

"How long is our Sicilian existence going to last?" he asks finally, setting down his fork. Hannibal glances up at him, and it seems he is considering the question, if only briefly.

"Until it is time to move on," he answers, and there is a tone of finality to it. But Will isn't satisfied.

"Is this what you imagined for us?" he says.

Hannibal puts his fork down, and his expression suggests Will's question has given him pause to think. He gazes at Will for what seems like a long time, and Will returns the stare, partially as a challenge and partially because he enjoys attempting to fathom the look in Hannibal's eyes.

"No," Hannibal says finally. "This is not how I envisioned us."

Will nods. He is fascinated by this display- this display of what he can only describe as vulnerability. He feels as if Hannibal's carefully constructed plan, the plan that has sustained them for these past months, is falling away from them, stripping them bare as they sit at this unfinished wooden table with their roast chicken and eggplant. And though Hannibal's foresight is what he has been relying on for all the time they've spent in Europe, he no longer feels as if he needs it for control. They are relinquishing control, and Will feels at ease.

"What did you want to happen?" Will says after a seemingly endless period of silence.

"What did _you_ want?" Hannibal echoes back to him.

"Me?" Will's mouth twists into a smile. "I didn't want anything to _happen_." He swallows. "I wanted _us_ to happen."

Hannibal grins; another mirroring of Will. He stabs his fork into the meat of the chicken on his plate. "As did I."

Will stands to clear his plate, brushing past Hannibal to place his dishes in the sink. After a moment Hannibal joins him, and as they dispose of their meals Will is aware of Hannibal's arm pressed against his own in the cramped counter space. They don't speak for the rest of the evening; what was said over dinner is enough conversation to last each of them a thousand years. The absence of a plan from this point forwards, to Will, seems fitting. If this life that Hannibal has built for him is about becoming, then this is _their_ becoming- his and Hannibal's, together. Becoming more than two fugitives tied together by death. They are not running, they are not fearful, they are not calculating.

They are _existing_.

The next day, Will leaves the room early in the morning- without Hannibal. It is the first time that he has ventured out completely alone since the night of Jack's death. Though he has a feeling Hannibal will follow him as he wanders the city, Will feels that this act of solidarity is more for his personal benefit than for any particular necessity. It is symbolic of the new leaf they are both turning over; Will is no longer under Hannibal's tutelage, or in need of his protection. He craves it, yes, but he is free of Hannibal's influence. Though they are existing together, he is also his own self, separate and equal. And so he roams Palermo.

That morning after his solitary breakfast, as Will was putting dishes away, he impulsively pocketed one of the kitchen knives sitting in the block next to the sink. He isn't sure what prompted him to do it- Palermo isn't exactly a dangerous city. But for some reason, as he prepares himself for his day alone, he feels slightly better feeling the small blade against his thigh.

One of the things Will finds right away is that there are many churches in Palermo. From sweeping cathedrals to dirty white-plastered chapels tucked into cobbled corners, the city is full of the Catholic Church. But one particular house of worship draws his attention; Norman Chapel.

Will's memory of his life Before is growing hazier with each passing day, but one thing he can see clearly as the streets in front of him is the day before Jack's last supper- the day he nearly betrayed Hannibal. He sees Hannibal before the great fireplace, telling him of Norman Chapel in Palermo, Sicily, telling him of its beauty and power. He knows that it is unwise to go there; he is not sure who else Hannibal told about his partiality to the church, and he could be seen or recognized. But he cannot resist. Before he knows it he's on the metro, on his way to see God- or at least, what Hannibal sees as God.

Walking into the chapel, Will's first thought is that it is smaller than he expected. Though the ceilings are vast and vaulted, and the entire space seems to radiate the midmorning light back at him, it is not the sprawling palace Hannibal's words created in his mind. He wanders the pews, taking in the intricacies of the artwork and the tranquil atmosphere. There are a few people with him in the main room, but he pays them no mind, and vice versa. He feels spectral- like he could float through the walls or up to the ceiling.

Eventually Will seats himself in a bench towards the back, his spine straight and his hands folded in his lap. He inhales through his nose and closes his eyes. Even though he knows Hannibal can't be far away from him (Hannibal's ego simply wouldn't allow Will to stray too far) he feels isolated and peaceful.

The sun has settled in the western rim of the sky when Will leaves Norman Chapel. The streets and the church itself are empty, and as Will walks, he gets the distinct feeling that he is being followed. Eventually he finds himself in a deserted _palazzo_ , walled in by yellowed plaster and the setting sun. The buildings lining the square are tall, with shaded balconies and shallow, slanting roofs. They feel like the nesting place of some primal bird. Something is wrong. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Will lowers his head and ducks into the narrow space between two buildings. He waits and he watches, but he doesn't expect what takes his place in the empty square.

Alana seems different than when he last saw her, though it is in an indefinable way that Will can't quite pinpoint. All he can think is that she seems _sharper_ , somehow, whether it is in how she dresses herself or how she carries herself, or the powerful handgun at her hip. She stops in the middle of the square and sighs.

"I know you're here, Will. We've been trailing you since ten o'clock this morning."

Cautiously Will steps into the fading light. "What are you doing here?" he asks, the words coming out harsher than either of them expected. "Doesn't Mason Verger need your services as a legal consultant?" He cocks his head. "Or did you decide you wanted the bounty for yourself?"

"You need to catch up on your news," Alana smiles at Will, but there is no warmth in her gaze, rendering the expression flat and alien. "Mason's in prison. Twenty-eight years without probation for multiple incidents of child abuse and assault." She takes a step forwards. "Coincidentally, I was Margot's legal consultant when she decided to press charges."

Will nods. Alana's presence is making him extremely uncomfortable. She is an anomaly in the life he is trying to cultivate, a blight on his shining new existence. Silently he hopes that Hannibal is nearby.

"You didn't answer my question," he says. Unease is giving his words an edge. "What are you doing here?"

"I may not agree with Mason on most things, but both of us can appreciate the merits of revenge," Alana replies. The smile drops from her face. "You murdered Jack, Will. You and Hannibal. I'm not sure I can forgive you for that."

Will is silent. He's groping in his pockets for the knife from breakfast, though he's not quite sure what he'll do with it once he has it. He knows what Hannibal would want him to do- what Hannibal _would_ do. But he's not sure what his course of action will be.

"You know I was the one who found him, right?" Alana is continuing, her voice rising. "You left my mentor -my _friend-_ dead on the table and I was the one who found his body. I was there to help him. _And_ you. We were going to catch Hannibal." She frowns, and her tone is bordering on desperate. "What happened, Will?"

Will shakes his head. "This- this is the way it's supposed to be." He circles Alana so that his back is to the sun. She squints at his silhouette. "Go home, Alana. You shouldn't be here."

"Put your hands up, Will," Alana says, raising her gun suddenly. "Put your hands up, and tell me where he is. It's the least you can do."

Will's hand closes around the knife. He steps towards Alana, his resolve hardening like a shell around his mind. He hears Alana shout, and suddenly they are surrounded; she's brought reinforcements.

"My revenge plot's a little more legal than Mason's," Alana says. "I'm still part of the FBI, if you remember. Now god _dammit_ Will, put your hands _up_."

"Leave us alone," Will replies, so quietly he's not sure Alana can hear him. The knife is steady in his hand, calming him. "I'll be damned if you take him away from me." He takes another step.

Alana cocks her gun. "I swear to God I'll shoot you, Will," she shouts. "You're lucky I haven't put one in your brain for Jack already."

Will can hear the officers around them loading and readying their weapons in a rapid _click-click-click_. He ignores it. He takes another step towards Alana.

 _Bang._

Will hears his own ears ringing, and the noise is so loud that he doesn't hear his knees hitting the ground. He catches himself on the palm of one hand and clutches the right side of his chest where Alana's bullet has narrowly missed his lung with the other. The edges of his vision are greying, and through them he sees the blurred outlines of Alana, her red coat glowing in the evening light, and the black Kevlar of the SWAT team, and the yellow plaster walls beyond them…

But a chaos bursts through the relative calm of the scene, causing his already pain-addled head to ache with eye strain. As he collapses further, he is aware that this new addition is another figure, a figure in a white button-down shirt that contrasts sharply with the reds of the sunset as it fights its way towards Will and looms over him, and Will can just barely make out the uncontrolled wrath of the figure that is, he realizes, protecting him…

xxx


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

They are on a plane.

This plane is different, however. Gone is the expensive champagne and comfortable business class seating. Gone are the other passengers, replaced with stony-faced FBI agents and a frosty Alana Bloom, avoiding eye contact with everyone. As Will begins to become aware of things besides the sharp, hot ache of the hole in his chest and the cold handcuffs binding him to the airplane seat, he realizes that everything is over, and he is exhausted. His freedom, his _becoming_ , is gone. Wasted.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Will looks to his right at Hannibal, who is staring out the window of the plane, directly into the sun. Hannibal may as well be a statue; he is rigid and unforgiving, and his eyes seem sunken into his skull until they are almost invisible. For once, Will has no idea what he is thinking.

"I thought I get the window seat," Will says finally, and to him, the words sound like cannon fire in the stuffy silence. Slowly, Hannibal turns to look down at him. For a moment, his expression is as cold as ever, but then Will notices that the corner of his mouth is quirking ever so slightly. Will returns the grin.

"Next time we go to Italy," Hannibal whispers, his tone matching Will's, "You are not allowed to go wandering."

"Believe me," Will murmurs back. "I don't think I should."

For a few minutes they sit, staring into space, each acknowledging that beyond their brevity, the hopelessness of their situation is settling in. Will isn't quite bothered by it, though- and he knows that Hannibal isn't either. They can both exist beyond the walls of whatever hole Alana will put them in, in a shared space that each of them will create for themselves and each other. This is far from the end of their becoming, Will realizes. It is merely the end of a certain chapter of their existence. They must reinvent themselves yet again.

Will sighs, and immediately winces as his wound is stretched by his expanding diaphragm. Hannibal glances down at him, noticing his sudden shortness of breath, but Will merely closes his eyes and lays his head on Hannibal's shoulder. The movement is cautious, like an animal, ready to shy away at any moment, but when Hannibal merely settles back in his seat Will allows himself to rest his full weight on him.

The atmosphere in the cabin changes instantly. All of a sudden no one can quite look in the direction of their captives. Even Alana sighs uncomfortably and busies herself with staring straight ahead, though distraction is difficult considering she is seated directly across the aisle from Will and Hannibal. Hannibal has the smallest smile on his face, one so imperceptible that one must know him to really see it.

But Alana knows him quite well.

xxxxx

Frederick Chilton is over the moon when they arrive in Baltimore.

He meets them at the airport with another SWAT team and an armored car full of orderlies, his face twisted by a triumphant grin. As Hannibal and Will are strapped into strait jackets and trolleys he surveys them, barely disguising his eagerness. Will can almost see the book deals flashing behind Chilton's eyes.

"Isn't this a bit of overkill, Frederick?" Alana asks, her lips pursed. Chilton doesn't even bother to look at her.

"With these two?" he drawls, his smile patronizing. "One can never be too sure, Doctor Bloom. They always were _quite_ the pair, weren't they?" He circles Will, who feels more like a prize racehorse than a psychiatric patient. "You know I won't be making any provisions when it comes to patients like these." Chilton looks up at Will with a knowing sigh. "And to think you _almost_ had me convinced you were innocent."

Will leans his head forwards, letting a sardonic smile creep across his face. He notes Chilton's unease with satisfaction.

"I almost had me convinced too, Frederick," he says. "Funny how things work out sometimes, isn't it?"

Chilton attempts to return Will's sarcasm, though the expression comes across as more of a toothache. "Don't try to patronize me, Mr. Graham. You can hardly lay any claims to dignity considering the little rampage through Europe you and Lecter have gone on these past few months." He shakes his head, gazing at Will, and it almost sounds like he's making a "tsk" sound. "I'd hate to think what _that_ mouth has done."

When Will merely stares, his expression cold and dead, Chilton turns away; it seems he can't bear to make eye contact with Will for a moment longer. He walks away from them towards his own car, followed by a security officer. Will glances at Hannibal, who is taking in the scene around them with all the amused indifference of someone watching a mildly funny television show. Even though Hannibal is strapped into a straight jacket and several restraining belts, Will can almost -but not quite- understand Chilton's stringent security. It seems as if the restraints are only there because Hannibal wants them to be. Two orderlies move in to wheel him towards the armored truck, and though Hannibal makes no sudden movements, both of them seem extremely unwilling to even be anywhere near him. It feels like a very real possibility that if Hannibal wished, he could simply step off the trolley and walk away.

Will is woken from his thoughts when he realizes Alana is staring at him. "What?" he asks her. "Is this enough? Does this avenge Jack?"

"Not even a little bit," Alana replies, her voice just as biting. She frowns, seeming both exasperated and confused as she gazes up at Will. "The way you look at him…" She shakes her head. "I would kill to know what he said to change you."

"He didn't have to say anything," Will says. He feels more orderlies hefting his trolley back onto its wheels. "He didn't change me. I did."

Alana watches as Will is wheeled away, and it seems to Will like she is looking at a stranger, her lips pressed together and her jaw rigid. She laughs, the sound thin and bitter- as full of contempt as it is sadness.

"You really are head over heels, aren't you?" she calls after them as the doors of the truck slam shut. Will stares down at his restraints to avoid Hannibal's damning smile.

When they arrive at the hospital (Will winces as they pass through the main gate- his memories of the place are still a bit too fresh) Chilton is waiting for them in the main patient's entrance. He smiles when he sees Will, Hannibal and their envoy approaching.

"Welcome," he says, clearly enjoying the gravitas of the moment. "And welcome back, Mr. Graham." Will ignores this, though not without effort. "I'm sure both of you know the rules of this establishment, so I won't bother explaining that. However," he holds a finger in the air for emphasis, "there are some legal issues I must go over regarding your upcoming trial." Chilton takes a step closer to Will and Hannibal, though he is careful to maintain a distance of at least five feet from either of them despite their incapacitation. He presses his fingertips together and paces back and forth.

"Neither of you is permitted to speak to any outside corporation, legal team, or journalist regarding the trial _or_ your mental faculties without express permission from myself. Neither of you is permitted to write letters, send packages, or have _any_ contact with anyone outside this facility unless I have authorized it and reviewed said content. You may not attempt to contact any medical or psychiatric doctors that are not under the hospital's employ. You are not granted legal rights to any of your possessions, and any and all conversations, written or spoken, are the property of the hospital and myself." He pauses, as if expecting them to protest these terms. When neither Hannibal nor Will says a word, Chilton nods. "Additionally," he says, "you will each be placed into separate sections of the facility, and are not allowed to have any contact with one another until after the outcome of your trial at the very earliest."

The atmosphere in the room shifts at Chilton's final statement; even he senses it, taking an unconscious step back and adjusting his suit lapels. Will looks over at Hannibal, and they exchange a brief, silent outrage before turning their attention back to Chilton, who falters as if he has been placed under a microscope lens naked. Licking his lips nervously, he signals to the security teams, who take their places beside Will and Hannibal and begin to wheel them down opposite hallways. Will twists in his jacket to gaze back at Hannibal, and he is filled with the same resolve to act that he felt when he met Alana in the _palazzo_. For a moment, he catches a glimpse of Hannibal's face and they lock eyes, but then they are each swept down their respective hallways into the bowels of the hospital.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

"Mr. Graham, please." The orderly is nervous but persistent. She pushes the tray of food through the adjoining box that connects the cell to the outside world, shutting the trapdoor quickly. "You have to eat. It's orders directly from Doctor Chilton."

Will looks up at the woman and smiles. The expression is genuine- he bears no ill will towards her.

"Chilton wants me to eat," he repeats, leaning back on his bed and clasping his hands in his lap. The orderly nods. Will shakes his head.

"Doesn't want me to get malnourished," he continues. "He can't have one half of his prize test case looking peaky at the witness stand." He cocks his head and regards the tray sitting in the plexiglass box, frowning slightly. Then he stands and approaches the clear dividing wall, walking slowly to give the orderly ample time to move back beyond the security line. He opens the trapdoor on his side of the box and slides the tray into the cell, holding it in his hands. The entire time his demeanor is light and pleasant. The orderly mistakes it for cooperation.

Will takes a few steps back from the dividing wall, still holding the tray. He then overturns it, scattering pieces of greyed meat and mashed potato across the floor of his cell. Carefully stepping around the newly formed mess, he returns the tray to the box and waits for the orderly to retrieve it.

"Come on," he says. He stands with his hands behind his back, just out of reach of the box, watching the orderly cautiously inch closer and closer. "It's just a tray." As she reaches into the box he rests his hands on top of it with a small smile that may have been mistaken for inviting in another circumstance.

In a quick burst of movement the woman snatches the tray from underneath Will's hands and backpedals until she is behind the line once again. Will closes the trapdoor on his end of the box with a loud click, still smiling pleasantly. As the orderly turns to hurry back down the hallway, Will shouts after her.

"Tell Chilton he'll need to send someone up to clean the floor," he calls. "You know by now that the smell is unbearable after a few days."

xxxxx

"Doctor Lecter, we've discussed this," the guard says, folding his arms. "All utensils, for eating or otherwise, have to be returned once you're finished with them." Hannibal nods, but the guard is unimpressed. "We gave you three pens. Only two and a half were returned."

Hannibal nods again, and the guard sighs. He steps over the line and approaches the plexiglass dividing wall, glaring at Hannibal, who sits innocently on his bed.

"You know we have to search you now," the guard says. "I'll get the order in for you to be tied up and we're doing a thorough search of both you and the cell."

Another nod.

It takes about an hour and two more orderlies for all of the routine restraining measures to be put in place, and then another forty five minutes to completely scour the cell. All the while Hannibal watches them attentively, his eyes never leaving the security guard's back. He has settled into the straightjacket quite comfortably when the guard finally turns back to him, his frustration just barely contained.

"All right," he says, sighing heavily and putting on his protective latex gloves. "Let's get this over with."

Neither Hannibal nor the guard enjoys the body searches, but both are aware that it is a necessity- for Hannibal it is because he wants to hold on to what little possessions he is allowed, and the guard because he wants to hold on to his job. So Hannibal becomes very still, just as silent as ever, and allows the guard to approach him.

"You know the drill," the man says. "Open up."

Hannibal opens his mouth, gazing down at the guard, who mistakes his compliance for cooperation. The guard scrutinizes him for a moment, to make doubly sure that there are no ulterior motives to Hannibal's behavior, then leans in to search for the missing pen nib. The longer Hannibal remains still, the closer and more comfortable the guard gets. When at one point he actually touches Hannibal's face and Hannibal remains as motionless as he has been, the man uses his newfound confidence to actually reach inside Hannibal's mouth.

This is when Hannibal bites down.

Yelling in shock and anger, the guard manages to wrench his fingers from Hannibal's teeth. He pulls off the ruined glove to reveal that two of his fingers have been torn open cleanly across the knuckle, dripping blood onto the floor of the cell. Cupping his injured hand close to his body, the guard hurries out of the cell with the orderlies in his wake, none of them bothering to free Hannibal from his restraints. Several hours later, when Chilton can finally convince the stronger members of the staff that it is safe to approach him, Hannibal waits until he is alone in his cell with Chilton furiously glaring at him from across the line to politely place the missing pen pieces into the adjoining glass box in the wall. There is the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

xxxxx

The Tuesday morning of the first day of Will and Hannibal's trial is the first time they have seen each other since they were caught four months prior. Since Chilton, in his wounded pride, insisted that they be transported in separate trucks, they meet again face-to-face only when they arrive at the courthouse. Though they are seated on opposite sides of the defendant's table (again, at Chilton's insistence) their proximity to each other improves their moods greatly.

Throughout the opening statements from each side, Will finds himself glancing headlong down the table to where Hannibal is waiting to return his look. He knows that their time in the hospital so far hasn't left either of them untouched- they are surely different people now than when they had their freedom- but he can't help but feel more like himself and less like a caged animal now. Maybe it's the change of scenery, or the fact that this is the first time he has been permitted to wear anything besides his hospital-issue jumpsuit, or Hannibal sitting just seven feet down the table from him (he would move to sit next to him, but they are both handcuffed in place), but Will knows his mind is clearer now than it ever has been.

Four days in, Hannibal is called to the stand first by the prosecution. He is attentive while the woman speaks, even nodding politely in acknowledgement of certain statements. He seems completely at ease in the witness's chair, and Will can see that he is reveling in the fact that he isn't legally allowed to be restrained in any way while he is at the stand. When the prosecutor asks her first question, Hannibal smiles and leans forwards- and is utterly silent.

Though the woman is a bit nonplussed by this, she decides after a tense few moments to continue with her line of questioning. As she continues, it becomes apparent that Hannibal has no intention of answering any of her questions. The same proves to be true for the defense lawyer. As Hannibal finishes his time on the stand and is escorted back to his seat, he catches Will's eye for a moment, and even though his expression remains neutral, Will sees the rebellious grin in Hannibal's eyes. When Will is called to the stand next, he follows in Hannibal's suit and keeps his mouth tightly shut.

On that Wednesday morning, Chilton allows Will and Hannibal to travel to the courthouse in the same truck. That day they deign to provide some information on their time in Italy.

On Monday of the following week, Chilton gives them a brief time together to "discuss their case" in the courtroom (while being heavily monitored, of course). The next day, Will explains his and Hannibal's initial plans to double-cross Jack to the jury.

That Friday, after the court has adjourned for the day, Hannibal and Will are brought back to the hospital only to find that they are being taken to adjacent cells. Though they cannot see each other, the knowledge that there is only a wall separating them is more than enough. Both Will and Hannibal give full testimonies at the stand, even confessing to most of the crimes they are accused of. After that, the trial moves quickly- both of them are ruled to be codependently insane.

On Saturday night, Will and Hannibal are on opposite sides of the same wall, the wall between their respective cells. Even though Chilton has allowed them this great luxury, it comes at a price- a rotating shift of security guards specifically designated to monitor their two cells at all times. Even so, this lack of privacy does little to perturb them- much to Chilton's poorly disguised frustration.

"I saw scars on a man's fingers," Will says. He is seated on the floor with his back to the wall he shares with Hannibal. He looks up, and even though there is a foot of concrete between them, he is looking directly at Hannibal, who is sitting on his bed with his legs crossed. "Couldn't begin to imagine why."

Hannibal grins. "One must find ways to keep things interesting," he says by way of reply. "Repetition is the gateway to madness."

"But remember, we _are_ mad," Will says. "By the authority of the state of Maryland and a jury of our peers."

"Ah yes," Hannibal glances up at a security camera mounted in the ceiling just outside of his cell. "Can't forget that." He turns to look at where Will would be. "Chilton would have our heads if we ruined his diagnoses."

"No, no, he can't do that," Now it is Will's turn to look into the camera. "He needs our heads _on_ our bodies. For the publication deals."

Hannibal chuckles. Then his expression turns serious.

"Will," he says. "Is it true that you were planning with Jack to betray me?"

"Yes," Will replies.

"And you would have killed me, then," Hannibal continues.

Will pauses for a moment. Though he isn't quite sure where Hannibal is taking this conversation, he knows what his answer will be. At another time, he might have lied- both to himself and to Hannibal. But now, he is stripped bare. Sitting on the concrete floor, watched by a man with a taser and a gun through a glass wall, three feet away from someone whom he wouldn't trust with his life and yet can't live without, he knows this is not a time for pretenses.

"Yes," he says again.

When Hannibal next speaks, it is still with that light, conversationally curious tone. "What made you change your mind?"

Will thinks again before answering. "I realized that I was choosing a life for the rest of the world and not choosing a life for myself." He swallows. "I had no future beyond the day that you were supposed to die."

"That is human nature, Will," says Hannibal. "To want the best possible life with morality as a secondary concern is our natural state."

"That is _our_ nature, Hannibal," Will returns. "Mine and yours. You would murder me even as I pulled the trigger. I would die with you."

"And I with you," Hannibal says simply.

xxxxx


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

The months after the trial are, all things considered, remarkably similar to Will and Hannibal's time in Italy. The two of them are content with simply existing in their current situation; the constant security cameras, the harsh rules Chilton attempts to impose, and the loss of their dignity in the world's eye as more of their story trickles into the press are just another set of circumstances. Nothing is happening _to_ them. Things are merely happening. They have very little, if any, contact with anyone from outside the hospital, and though Chilton sometimes tries to have one or the other evaluated by various esteemed doctors that he has convinced to pay a visit, they continue to defy categorization. Perhaps it is because their cases are so abnormally interconnected, one psychiatrist reasons after having a joint session with both of them and cutting it off fifteen minutes in for "personal safety reasons." It is difficult to disentangle which symptom belongs to who, or where a set of influences flows into preexisting pathology.

Will and Hannibal are much more talkative in their cells than they were free. Their relationship, which was based so much on silent understanding and contact before, now must rely on conversation; the sound of each other's voice is the only proof they have that the other is still there. (Though Will feels that a certain portion of it is that Hannibal loves to have an audience.) Will finds that with each passing day that Hannibal's is one of the few voices he hears, and that the four walls of his cell and the halls beyond are the only world he knows, the existence of other people in his consciousness begins to blur and fade. Orderlies and guards are faceless, and Will knows that he would not hesitate to kill any of them if opportunity demanded it, no matter how well he might know them; the night of Jack's death is a vague recollection, if anything; and the idea of the anonymous masses beyond the hospital seems utterly distasteful. He knows that Hannibal maintains contact with the outside through the various newspapers and magazines he requests, but Will has little interest in those things anymore- in fact, humanity as a whole has become nearly alien to him.

In this manner the months stretch into a year and then multiple years- two and a half. Though Will and Hannibal haven't touched or even truly seen each other save for precious brief moments during that time, it now seems impossible to separate them. Even Chilton, who finds every opportunity he can to threaten their return to secluded cells, can't help but think of them as a cohesive unit. And the staff found that the sooner they accepted this fact, the easier their lives became. Most of those years passed without commotion, though there had been a few isolated incidents that were attributed by Chilton to simple boredom- and besides, the officer's ear would heal eventually. But besides the rare instances of mutilation, Will and Hannibal's time in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane is passing as uneventfully as possible.

That is, until Alana returns.

It is early in the morning when Hannibal, who has woken before Will, sees an unhappy looking Chilton escorting an equally stony-faced Alana Bloom down the hallway towards his and Will's cells. Intrigued, he stands up to greet them as they approach.

"Hello Alana," he says, inclining his head and ignoring Chilton. "Congratulations on your new position. Jack would be proud you are taking his place." He purses his lips. "I would shake your hand, but Frederick had a bit of legislature signed banning me from all physical contact." Chilton tries to interject but Alana interrupts him, pulling a sheaf of papers from inside her coat.

"As much as I hate to say it," she says, "We need your help. _I_ need your help."

"Do you." Hannibal's expression is carefully neutral, but both Alana and Chilton hear the smile in his voice. Though Chilton clearly disapproves, Alana chooses to ignore it and presses on.

"We've seen a resurgence of a certain cold case. All the leads are gone, and the last two people who worked on it," she sighs, "Were you two." Hannibal merely gestures to the box in the wall. Alana puts the papers she's brought in the box, showing no apprehension at approaching Hannibal- something that is duly noted by him. When she's returned to her place behind the boundary line Hannibal retrieves the papers and rifles through them briefly, saying nothing.

"I was hoping Will would be awake," Alana continues. "He read the last scene, and-"

"A family slaughtered," Hannibal says without looking up. "Mutilated physically and sexually."

"Just the woman."

Both Alana and Chilton glance into the next cell, startled. Hannibal smiles. Will is awake and seated on his bed in a patch of shadow, staring at the opposite wall.

"What?" Chilton says, his voice even more pompous than usual as he attempts to hide his momentary surprise.

"Just the woman," Will repeats, looking at Alana. "The woman was mutilated. Mrs. Marlowe."

"Yes, well, our killer's made some improvements to his m.o.," Alana says, turning away from Hannibal and approaching Will's cell. "We've got more of a large scale production on our hands this time around. And we'd appreciate the help." Will leans back against the wall, eyeing Alana in a way that makes her take an unconscious step back.

"Would you," he says. There is a long silence as Will and Alana gaze at each other, each expecting the other to say more. When it becomes clear that Will will offer no more information regarding the subject, Alana exhales slowly, her lips pressed together.

Chilton leans in to Alana. "I told you," he says, the corner of his mouth quirking. "These two have developed _quite_ the apathy for us 'ordinary people.' Their regard for human life is... deplorable, to say the least."

"Oh, I'm aware, Frederick," Alana replies, still refusing to break eye contact Will. "But you've overlooked that they haven't lost their love for _good fun_." She turns away, her expression as aloof as she can manage. "I'll leave the files with you," she says to Hannibal. "And be sure to let Will have a look at them. Get the old scent again."

"It's been good seeing you, Alana," Will says suddenly. "How long has it been?"

Despite herself Alana stops and turns partially back. "Since the trial," she says, her voice guarded. Will nods.

"Did you enjoy testifying against us, Alana?" Hannibal interjects, stepping close to the plexiglass wall.

"Was it satisfying?" Will adds.

"Yes," Alana says simply. She looks as if she is as ready to leave as she ever was, but something keeps her rooted to the ground.

"She was an excellent witness," Will says to Hannibal. "I mean, she knows us better than anyone else." He shrugs slightly. "You more than me."

"So she does," Hannibal says, his eyes still on Alana, who somehow looks furious and small at the same time.

"She always did like you better," says Will. "Took your word over mine." He looks back at Alana now as well. "Is that why you said I was 'brainwashed into committing atrocities and mistaking them for offerings of adoration?'" Hannibal glances sideways, as if he can see Will through the wall.

"She thinks you were not fully in control of your faculties when you helped me dispose of Jack," he says. It sounds like a challenge. "Or rather, she hopes."

"Do you still hope, Alana?" Will asks. "Do you still hope that I wasn't more in control, more aware then than I ever have been?"

"No," Alana's voice is flat. Dead. She glances at Chilton, who has remained in stunned silence for this entire exchange, then back at Will and Hannibal. "Just look at the files, boys. Tell me when you're bored enough to say anything meaningful. Hopefully no one else will die between then and now. And by the way?" She looks back at Will briefly."They call him the Tooth Fairy." And then she is gone, strutting down the hall at a brisk pace, leaving Chilton in her wake. He glares at them.

"I hope you are aware you have successfully talked yourselves out of breakfast," he says coldly. Will grins at him, all teeth and hard eyes. On the other side of the cell wall, Hannibal mirrors Will's expression with a demure smirk.

"At least you don't have to worry while we deliberate," Will says, his tone matching his near-savage expression. "Our killer is only interested in married families."

xxxxx

It's hard to tell whether Price and Zeller are more furious or offended when Alana tells them where she's been all morning, and that she's given the only official case files to Hannibal Lecter. When she returns to the lab, they're both still poring over the corpses of the latest family -the Leeds- as if the longer they stare at Mr. Leeds's mutilated body, the more likely it is that something will have escaped their previous scrutiny. At first they ignore her, but when she's waited long enough for their pride to die away she is able to allow both of them to berate her while she patiently waits for them to be satisfied.

"Really? Really?" Jimmy is saying, still waving a scalpel in the air. "You trust them more than you trust us-"

"You gave the entire case file-" Brian interrupts, "-everything we've got- to the two guys who managed to screw us over more times than I can count anymore-"

"You're saying that the psychopaths who are on the cover of Frederick Chilton's next book can do our job better than we can," Price folds his arms decisively.

"Of course not," Alana says. "If I thought that, they'd be here in the lab instead of you."

Zeller frowns. "Are you implying that we'd also, then, be the crazy murder husbands in their place?"

Price turns to his partner and shakes his head. "Frankly, I'm offended."

"Come on, both of you," Alana stands up now, her voice stronger. "We've hit a wall and you know it. All we've got are the facts, and we need more than that."

Price sighs, turning back to look down at Mr. Leeds. "You've got us there, Doctor Bloom. This guy's given us nothing. No prints, no hair, not even the bite marks are his."

"Some kind of dentures, we think," says Zeller. "He's really thought of everything."

"Anything about the mirrors?" Alana asks, joining Jimmy in looking at the body on the autopsy table.

The mirrors are what truly differentiates this murder from the killer's previous one. All of the bodies -all five members of the Leeds family- have been utterly destroyed. Each was killed with a precise gunshot wound, but that is where the typicality stops. Carefully wedged and embedded into opportune parts of each body- the eyes, the mouth, (and, in Mrs. Leeds's case, the genitals)- are mirror shards, positioned in such a way that it is obvious they are meant to be seen and provide reflection. It is a glaring clue, and yet completely mystifying.

"No," Jimmy answers finally. "All we know is that they were added post-mortem, and that there was little to no sexual motive behind Mrs. Leeds's mutilation."

"And that's where our 'murder husbands,' as you put it, come in," Alana says. "If anyone can tell us why our killer wants to see himself in his victims, it's Will Graham."

"And if anyone can get Will Graham to tell us jack shit, it's Hannibal Lecter," finishes Brian as the realization hits him.

Alana smiles. "Exactly."

xxxxx


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

"I'm afraid what you are asking for is impossible," Chilton says. "Morally, legally, and personally, I cannot allow it."

"Oh, come on, Frederick," Will says, leaning against the wall of his cell that is adjacent to Hannibal's. "All we're asking for is one hour."

"One hour?" Chilton repeats, his voice constricted. "One hour of _complete_ unsupervision- no cameras, no tapes, no guards?" He shakes his head. "No. Absolutely not. It would be the death of me."

"Don't be so sure of that," Hannibal is pacing the length of his cell, his hands behind his back. "Fate is a fickle thing. It may be your savior."

"Imagine how it would feel," Will interjects, infusing as much melodrama into his voice as he can bear, "for the world to know that under your carefully calculated guidance, the _fallen angels_ of the FBI successfully stopped a relentless mass murderer from taking his next victims. You are saving entire families with your work, Doctor Chilton. The lives of men, women, and children." He smiles. "All we need is one hour."

"Why?" Chilton asks. "Why do you need radio silence to mull over this precious case file? Is your process truly so sacred that you cannot allow any witnesses?" He narrows his eyes. "Is it ritualistic? Or are you just going to pleasure yourselves with the knowledge that five lives were ended in the most brutal of ways and would prefer to do it in only each other's company?" He shakes his head. "It seems like something you two would do."

"Don't be vulgar, Frederick," Hannibal says, matching Chilton's look of disappointment. "We are doing work for the FBI. You ought to know the importance of confidentiality when handling such delicate matters as this."

"One hour," Will repeats, "And you can be present when we give all of our information to Doctor Bloom."

Chilton stares at them for a long time, and they can see his mind racing furiously behind his eyes, weighing the pros and cons of the situation they have presented him with. Finally he purses his lips and sighs.

"Very well," he says. "But both of you will be subject to a thorough search following your allotted hour, and security measures will be doubled for the next week." Will and Hannibal nod.

"Thank you, Doctor Chilton," Will says. When Chilton can detect no irony in Will's tone, he stiffly departs, still seeming supremely uncomfortable with his decision.

When the cameras have been turned off and the security and orderlies have vacated the area, Will sits down in his familiar place against the wall and knows Hannibal is doing the same on the other side.

"So what do we have?" he asks.

"Family of five," Hannibal says. "The Leeds. All were killed with gunshot wounds to the head and chest, and their corpses were mutilated. Our man inserted shards of mirror into the eyes and mouth of the family, and the labia of poor Mrs. Leeds."

"Were the mirrors from the Leeds's house?" Will asks.

"Yes."

"And no other evidence of sexual violence was found."

"No."

Will nods. "He finds no satisfaction there, then. Just another convenient hole."

"Convenient," Hannibal echoes. He sounds amused.

"It is a theatre," Will says, and in his mind's eye he can see it- the dark room in which the family is situated, all positioned accordingly and appropriately. "A stage. For a performance. He is setting up the props for his show."

"There were also bite marks found on all of the victims," Hannibal adds, reading from the file.

"Biting and tasting are two of the most intimate experiences a human can have," Will says, closing his eyes. "He is getting acquainted with his audience." He can almost feel skin under his teeth, and unconsciously his jaw clenches. "And they are becoming acquainted with him. Intimately."

"But not erotically," Hannibal says.

"No," Will frowns as another realization comes. "No... They don't... They don't deserve that. They are beneath him, not worthy of the dignity he might be able to afford them. Only witnesses."

"He wants someone to witness him," Hannibal says, gazing down at the graphic photos. "To understand him and his nature."

Will nods.

"Why should we tell them that?" he asks after a moment. "Why should we help save lives when ours have been reduced to an eight-by-twelve-foot box?"

"Because," Hannibal says, "The more times Alana Bloom says she needs our help, the wider our box becomes. Our circle of influence extends with every life that we affect beyond the walls of this hospital."

"Do we need to affect that life positively or negatively?" Will says.

"That depends on how helpful we are feeling," Hannibal replied, and Will can hear the smile in his voice. "Are you of a charitable humor at the moment, Will?"

"Towards Alana Bloom?" Will's face cracks across the middle with a grin of his own. "Not particularly."

"Then we shall see how much of this information is necessary to impart," Will hears Hannibal standing up. "And how much they can riddle out on their own." Hannibal is at the glass dividing wall, looking up. "Our hour is at an end, Will."

Will glances up and sees the tiny light on the security camera blink back into existence. "So it is," he says. He can already hear security officers returning. He soon sees them- and they are followed by Chilton.

"So," Chilton says with a huff, "Did you enjoy your little secluded chat?"

"Greatly," Hannibal replies. He holds up the crime scene photos -specifically the ones of Mrs. Leeds- for Chilton to see. "You were right, Frederick. I found these images to be quite stimulating."

"He is _quite_ the perverted man, Doctor Chilton," Will says, his mocking tone not lost on any of them. "Though not half as perverted as you think I am."

Chilton merely grits his teeth and gestures stiffly with one hand to the security officers. "Just search them," he says. "If so much as a paper clip is missing from those files, both of you will be in solitary until Easter." He glares at Hannibal. "And that means no books."

"We understand," says Will. There is a pause, and then Hannibal spits a paper clip onto the cell floor. Will grins at Chilton. "You might want to pick that up."

Chilton's stare could melt steel. "Don't congratulate yourselves too soon," he says, his voice oozing forced superiority. "We will see how useful you are -or rather, how many privileges you are allowed to keep- when Doctor Bloom arrives tomorrow."

xxxxx

But it is not Doctor Bloom who comes to pay a visit.

Hannibal and Will hear two people whispering to each other from far down the hallway, and if they were able to they might have glanced quizzically at one another. As it is, both of them merely sit and wait, Hannibal on his bed, and Will pacing back and forth along the wall adjacent to Hannibal, his fingers just barely trailing along the concrete. When he hears the footsteps slow and stop in front of the cells, he keeps his back to them.

"Hello," He hears Hannibal say to whoever their guests are. "Forgive us- it wasn't you we were expecting."

"Don't worry," a familiar voice says. "We're not exactly thrilled to be here."

"We'll be out of your hair soon," another voice adds, its usual brevity mangled by a cold edge. Will turns around.

"Jimmy," he says, not sure if he's confused or pleasantly surprised . "Brian."

Price looks over at Zeller and sighs. "Oh, look at that, he remembers us," he says. Then he turns back to Will. "We thought you might've gotten too Ripper-y to spare a thought for your old colleagues," he explains. "You know, from back when you were a normal human being-"

"I was never a 'normal human being,' Price, and don't pretend you don't know that," Will says, walking right up to the glass, his momentary sense of amiability lost. "Why are you here?"

"Alana wanted us to gather the information firsthand," says Zeller. "Said she wants the four of us to communicate as a team and that she won't be your messenger boy."

"We didn't expect her to be," Hannibal interjects.

"Um," Jimmy nods. "Good. We didn't either. So now, if you'd be so kind-"

"...the case reading?" Zeller finishes.

Will gazes up at them for a moment while they watch him and Hannibal expectantly, then turns and goes back to his pacing alongside the wall. He hears the shuffling of papers and then Zeller opening the box on Hannibal's cell. Zeller rifles through what Hannibal has given him and looks up, frowning.

"These are just the case files," he says. "Do you have anything else?"

"Everything you need to catch him is in those files," Will says absently. "You don't need us."

"See, but we do," Price says. "This case is giving us a real headache down at the lab-"

"Perhaps you've chosen the wrong profession, then, Jimmy," Hannibal smiles.

"Are these two behaving, Mr. Price?" It is then that Chilton chooses to join them, peering into Will and Hannibal's cells with a scrutinizing glare. He glances at Jimmy. "I'll take from your expression that the answer to that is 'no.'"

"We are cooperating," Will says. "We gave the files back."

"We have given them all the necessary tools for catching him," Hannibal adds. Chilton glares at him for a moment, then leans in very close to the dividing glass.

"You will help them," he says. "You will help them, or I will take away every single sheet of paper that you have or have ever had." He then walks down the line until he is directly in front of Will. "And you," he says. "You will be going just down the hallway over there," he points, "close enough that you each know where the other is, but not _quite_ close enough that you can speak with one another." He leans in to one of the ventilation holes. "Indefinitely."

Will glances at his and Hannibal's adjacent wall as if he can see through it, and he knows Hannibal is doing the same on the other side. There is a brief silence in which the tension is so thick it almost seems as if one could hold it in their hand. And then-

"The Tooth Fairy is a performer, a dancer, as it were," Will says, his voice loud and fast. "And the thing he wants more than anything else-"

"-is an audience," Hannibal finishes, leaving no space between his words and Will's. "He places mirrors on the bodies so that he may see himself reflected in their eyes-"

"-and know that they are witnessing him," Will begins to move out into the center of his cell. "He is arranging for these families to become both his theatre, his consumers, and his canvas-"

"-so that we are also able to witness his art," Hannibal walks towards the back of his cell. "He feels that he is ascending, elevating-"

"-achieving a higher state than what he was previously," Will and Hannibal turn back to face Price and Zeller at the same time as Will speaks. "And the Marlowes, the Leeds- they were privileged enough to witness this enlightenment-"

"-and transcend with him," Hannibal finishes.

The place is still when Will and Hannibal stop talking. Jimmy and Brian are still looking back and forth between the two of them, as if their eyes are experiencing lag. Chilton looks as if he isn't sure how to react- he is impressed, embarrassingly so, but also seems more confused than he wants to admit. Hannibal glances sidelong at the wall that connects him to Will and grins. Will merely watches Price and Zeller with narrowed eyes.

"That should be all you need," he says finally. "Oh, and one more thing- if you need something to look at a bit more closely, try the eyes. They reveal a bit more than you'd think."

It is Zeller who recovers first. "Thank you," he says. "I hope we won't have to come back."

"I'm sure you don't," says Hannibal. Will barely smothers a chuckle. "After all, that would mean you haven't caught him yet."

Before Jimmy and Brian have even left, Will begins to speak again, this time addressing Hannibal.

"I wonder if they'll be able to stop him," he says, just loud enough that Price and Zeller can hear.

"I expect not," Hannibal replies. "I expect they will return to us with another set of photos-"

"-Another family brutally slaughtered," Will finishes. "A mother's dignity violated, and the rest of the family no less destroyed- if only physically. And we will tell them what we've already told them-"

"-and they will be no closer," Hannibal has his eyes on Zeller and Price's retreating forms, confident from the rigid set of their shoulders that his and Will's conversation has not gone unnoticed.

Chilton smiles. "How lucky am I to have this afternoon's exchange on tape," he says, retreating backwards down the hall, his eyes on Will. "It will be a fantastic addition to my book- a testament to the depths to which human cruelty can sink."

"Cruelty often is birthed from frustration," Will says. "And frustration from boredom."

Hannibal gives Chilton a knowing look. "Your hospital is quite boring, Frederick."

xxxxx


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"Give me the news, boys," Alana says. "What's the word from the madhouse?" They are in the lab, standing on either side of an empty autopsy table.

"Erm- not much," Price says, rubbing the back of his neck almost sheepishly. "They're not exactly the most cooperative couple, are they?"

"In fact, they may be the _least_ cooperative couple," Zeller adds. Alana sighs.

"But did they _give_ you anything?' she asks again. Immediately Brian nods.

"Well, first they gave us the files back," he says, handing the folder to Alana. "Chilton assured us that every item was present."

"And they gave us a bit," says Jimmy. "Emphasis on a _bit._ Said our guy loves an audience. That he's not killing the families -not in his mind- but elevating them."

"Elevating them _alongside_ him," Zeller clarifies. "Graham said -or was it Lecter-?"

"Lecter, I think-"

"Anyway, Lecter said that this guy wants us to 'witness' his enlightenment, or something like that. And Graham told us to check the eyes again," Zeller sighs. "And that's about it."

"You think there's anything they're keeping from us?" Alana glances between Price and Zeller, who both shrug.

"Who's to say?" Price says. "I mean, personally I think there's a lot they're keeping from us, but according to them, we have all we need to solve the case."

"Hmm," Alana narrows her eyes in obvious disbelief. "Well, if that's all they'll give us for now, then we've got to extrapolate. Review the facts and see what they look like in the light of what we have."

"Well," Zeller is saying, "That's what we did."

"And?"

"And we think we've got something," Price jumps in, taking a sheet of paper from the case file and pointing to a certain part. "See, we noticed this murder happened on a full moon. And if there's anything performers like, it's consistency. Gotta keep their show running on time, right?"

Zeller walks over. "So if we take the fact that it happened on a full moon -which doesn't seem like a coincidence- and couple it with what Graham told us, about this guy wanting an audience-"

"...One can assume he'll strike again on a full moon," Alana finishes, nodding. "It's a start. Get started on checking the eyes like Will said, and get back to me if you find anything. And be thorough- he's not usually wrong."

"Noted," Brian says, already in the process of putting on his gloves. Price follows suit.

Alana takes a deep breath as she watches Zeller and Price mill about in the lab, preparing all the equipment they might need in order to gather information about the killer- there are a plethora of things that could get caught in a body's eye. The mucous membrane is a wellspring of dandruff, hair, dust, even fingerprints if one is lucky. Each of these things would require a DNA test and its own special retrieval method- a tedious process no matter what. And the fact that they have little way of knowing if the killer will strike again on the next full moon or in two years gives them practically no frame of reference for how much time they have. Alana knows that if Will was willing to cooperate, they could get much closer much more quickly. And she finds that she is resenting Hannibal more and more for taking that from her.

xxxxx

A month passes. Chilton attempts several times to glean more information on the Tooth Fairy from Will and Hannibal in their one-on-one therapy sessions (he insists that he be the only doctor at the hospital to attempt to treat them) but he gains little ground. When the topic of the case is brought up, both Hannibal's and Will's mouths become sealed. Will uses the excuse that he doesn't know whether he can trust Chilton with sensitive information regarding the victims; Hannibal merely smiles. Both Chilton and Alana, who have kept up an uneasy and rather snarky correspondence as the weeks until the Tooth Fairy's next kill lengthen, agree that Will would be far more useful if Hannibal's influence were to be removed, but they cannot see how that could feasibly occur. Frederick suggests hypnotism; Alana wants to allow Hannibal to "escape"; neither can go through with the other's plan with a clear conscience.

It is during one of these individual sessions that Chilton finally becomes fed up with Will.

"Tell me," he says abruptly, his palms pressed to the table that separates him and Will. "How does one of the most brilliant minds the forensic world has to offer- dare I say, a savant- become reduced to..." He gestures to Will, who is wrapped tightly in a straight jacket with his ankles cuffed to the table, sighing. "This? You are a tragedy- the world labels you a raving madman."

"What about you, Frederick?" Will asks. "What do you think I am?"

Chilton purses his lips. "I think you are the smartest of us all," he says. "You fell in love and passed it off to the rest of us -and the federal judicial system- as madness."

"And Doctor Lecter?" Will presses. "What's he, then?"

"Doctor Lecter..." Chilton grins. "Doctor Lecter is one of the many lunatics who managed to transfer his symptoms onto someone else."

"If you're trying to flatter me, it isn't working," Will says sharply, his tone darkening.

"I am trying nothing of the sort," says Chilton, folding his hands on the table with oily smoothness. "I was merely attempting to separate you and Doctor Lecter." Then, as if realizing he's made a mistake, he continues. "-Psychologically."

"Something that is notoriously difficult to do, I'm told," Will isn't looking at Chilton now. He is watching the floor as if he would like to burn a hole in it.

"Difficult, but not impossible, I think," Chilton narrows his eyes, examining Will curiously. "Surely you cannot be so closely intertwined -if you'll forgive the phrase- that your pathos are one and the same."

Will looks up at this, his expression quizzical, as if he's trying to determine whether Chilton's words are offensive to him. He sits up straighter in his chair, a movement which makes Chilton delicately slide his hands off of the table to rest in his lap.

"Our _pathos_ ," Will repeats finally, the word twisting in his mouth to sound bitter and ugly. Then he frowns, gazing at Chilton. "Did Doctor Bloom put you up to this?"

Chilton swallows as if he's tasted something sour. "Doctor Bloom has nothing to do with my professional curiosity, Mr. Graham," he says. Will almost laughs.

"I'm sure," Will says, making sure his derision is obvious. "What else would you two converse about besides mine and Hannibal's _pathos_?"

"Contrary to popular belief, the world does not revolve around you and Doctor Lecter," Chilton grins patronizingly. "Your case was shut long ago by all but the most _persistent_ psychiatric minds. However, I can assure you that what Doctor Bloom and I discuss is none of your business."

Will nods with what he hopes is a respectful air. "Sorry," he says. "I should've known to give you two some _privacy._ "

Chilton is smart enough to catch Will's meaning, but not quite astute enough to detect his teasing tone. "I'll have you know that Doctor Bloom is happily married, Mr. Graham," he folds his hands in his lap, the splitting image of wounded propriety. "And to one Margot Verger, I might add." Will raises his eyebrows, but otherwise gives no indication of his reception of this piece of information. Chilton presses on. "So forgive me if I'm not startled by your accusations."

Will merely shrugs and refuses to say any more on the subject. After a few minutes of silence Chilton grows bored and sends him back to his cell. As he is being forced down the hall, he makes brief, pointed eye contact with Hannibal.

"How was your session, Will?" Hannibal asks as soon as the orderlies are gone, and Will can tell from the sound of his voice that he is near the wall between them.

"Enlightening," Will says. His mind is working, though towards what end he cannot be sure. "We discussed Alana."

Something in Will's tone makes Hannibal glance at the guards stationed at the ends of the hall and lower his own voice. "Often an enlightening subject," he says carefully. "What, particularly, has Chilton shared with us this time?"

Will smiles. "She's married," He leans against the wall, directly across from Hannibal. Mere feet are separating them. "To Margot Verger."

Hannibal nods. "Good for them," he says. Will knows that they are both considering this piece of information and what it might mean for their future, but neither can confide in the other due to the public nature of their conversations. They can merely hope and trust that they are both contemplating the same options. Will is staring straight ahead at the blank wall across from his cell -a stretch of concrete that he knows intimately well from it being his only scenery for nearly three years- but in his mind's eye he can see Alana and Margot.

They're in a house that his imagination has constructed to fit their new life- modest, but not without luxury. Will is watching this fancied domesticity from outside the window of their house, and he can feel the presence of Hannibal somewhere near him, though he can't quite pinpoint where his amalgamous thoughtform ends and Hannibal's begins. Alana and Margot are sitting in a living room, silent and still. They might be asleep. Will watches them impassively. His feelings on this vision of his are unclear- he feels an urge to enter the house, though he has no idea what his actions will be once he has entered.

At that moment the phantom-Hannibal turns and heads for the front door. Like a buoy on a fishing line, Will is pulled along with him as he enters the house silently.

They meet Alana and Margot in the hallway that leads to the back stairwell- as, he realizes, they are attempting to escape him and Hannibal. Will hangs back -he bears neither of them any particular wish of harm- but Hannibal is acting, and acting fast. Through the shifting physics and intentions of Will's imagination, Hannibal has dispatched of both women in the blink of an eye.

Before Will has time to decide whether or not he approves of this course of action, Hannibal begins to break the mirrors.

Separate from the vision-version of himself, Will understands; they are going to desecrate Margot and Alana in the fashion of the Tooth Fairy. Grappling the implications that come along with this fantasy will come later. Right now, thought-Will makes the decision to join in.

When everything is said and done, Will and Hannibal stand at the foot of the master bed, admiring their handiwork in the way Will imagines the Tooth Fairy might. Margot and Alana are propped against the headboard, their eyes and lips replaced by the bright shards of light reflected from the window. Hannibal looks at Will and smiles. As Will returns the look, he feels an uncomfortable turn in his stomach, a sensation that seems alien to him in its old familiarity. It takes a moment for Will to realize that he is disgusted- though whether it is with this imago of Hannibal, or the crude nature of the murders, or himself, he cannot tell.

xxxxx


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

When the Tooth Fairy strikes again, a mere three days later, Will and Hannibal are some of the first to hear about it. Price and Zeller have returned, looking rather like two boys who've been sent to the principal's office as they face the adjacent cells, avoiding eye contact with anyone but each other. Zeller sends the file on the Tooth Fairy, which is looking much fatter than it had when Will saw it last, through the transfer box with stiff ceremony. Will makes no motion to get it; he is lying on his bed with his back to Jimmy and Brian, barely registering their presence. After a moment the two decide it will be more productive to address Hannibal.

"As I'm sure you've noticed," says Brian, "we've had another visit from the Tooth Fairy."

Hannibal is just amused enough for it to be considered insulting. "I've noticed," he says. "Doctor Bloom must be getting desperate if she has you running errands in the madhouse."

"Well as much as we'd like to stay, this is a short house call," Price smiles humorlessly. "We've got two day old bodies in the lab and they aren't getting any fresher."

"I certainly won't keep you," Hannibal's tone is that of a gracious, if reserved host. "It's not my fault you're here." He regards Zeller and Price with an almost sympathetic smile. "Nor is it my fault that they are there."

"You always were the understanding type," Jimmy says, giving a gesture that is nearly a wave. Then the pair is gone, so quickly that it seems they were pushed by a repulsive force.

Will's eyes are closed. Price and Zeller's retreating footsteps seem to come from somewhere far above him, and in that murky realm of his senses he hears Hannibal asking if he is alright. He can't answer. He hasn't slept much since his therapy session and the resulting vision. All he sees in his mind's eye are the bodies of Alana and Margot, and they drive him to restlessness because he can't tell whether he is more unsettled by his hesitancy or his callous indifference. He hears Hannibal call to him again, and his head turns towards the sound, but he still isn't sure what he would say in response, or whether he can respond at all. The close connection between Hannibal and his newest nightmares is impossible to ignore, even when he is (for the most part) lucid.

For the first time since the very beginning of his second stint in the hospital, his cell seems far too small. The last time he saw even a window was when he was put in an interview room for a piece on a local news station, nearly ten months previous. He can feel Hannibal's presence on the other side of the wall, and even that seems a bit too close for his new sensitivities.

And the thought of escape crosses his mind.

Of course, breaking out has always been a possibility that Will has entertained, and he knows that Hannibal harbors the same thoughts. But it was never exactly a priority for them, at least not initially, and the feasibility of getting each other out alive was nearly hopeless, considering how tightly Chilton had locked them away. But now...now Will feels the pull of open space on his mind- being free and unmonitored would allow him to smooth out the kinks in his mental state. Later that night, he knows what will happen; it is a tactic he and Hannibal have employed in the past with measured success. In the early hours of the morning, normally around what feels like two o'clock, they begin to speak to each other. The topics they discuss are just distasteful, just intimate enough that the night guard turns the music up on his iPod and Chilton erases the audio recordings out of childish disgust. And then they are able to have a brief few moments of nearly-free speech. And tonight, Will thinks, eyeing the folder in the box on the wall with the vaguest of plans forming in his mind, they will discuss their escape.

xxxxx

"Have you completely lost your mind?"

Alana leans back against the couch, a cold smile coloring her face against her will. "I'm running out of ideas, honestly," she says. "You know it, I know it, my team knows it," she sighs heavily. "And _they_ know it."

Margot sits down next to her, looking concerned and more than a bit upset. "You know better than anyone what they are- what _Will_ is. How do you think this will help anything?" She shakes her head and leans a bit closer to Alana. "Why are you even telling me this?"

"I don't know," Alana's face is hard, but as she speaks there is a helpless tenderness to her words. "I wanted to run it by someone before I tried bringing it up to the FBI."

"And I'm telling you it's ridiculous," Margot says. "Letting Will leave the hospital, even if it's just to read a crime scene? They're starting to get to you." Her voice begins to take on the tinge of experience. "They want you to think they're the only option you have left."

"I know," Alana replies. There is a blank wall opposite them and she locks it in her gaze. "But Will will give me something even if he doesn't want to. He can't help himself." She turns to look at Margot, feeling a need to explain herself- to solidify her logic. "This scene… it's brutal. Nothing like anything we've ever seen. It'll get to him. He'll see _some_ thing. And I'll know it." She grins again, and though it's brief, it feels nearly triumphant. "I know him."

Margot sighs. "Why do you want to drag them back out of hell, Alana? We've made something of ourselves. Beyond all the horror. Taking Will out of the hospital just pulls us into the pit again. And I don't have any intention of losing this-" she gestures at their house, quiet and warm despite their topic of conversation. "-or you."

"I have to try," Alana says flatly. "Or I'll feel like I've failed. That I didn't do enough." She can't tear her eyes away from Margot, even though she feels like right now she wants nothing more than to be alone. "I didn't save Jack. I've got to save someone."

"Those people can save themselves," Margot says. "And you save yourself. Nothing else matters."

Alana leaves a quick kiss on Margot's lips, because if she lingered any longer she wouldn't be able to face the others at the Bureau tomorrow. "Nothing will happen." She forces a smile. "And if anything does, I'll kill him." Margot nods, and for the first time she seems slightly convinced. They sit in silence, pressed against each other, and each knows the other wishes things were different- how exactly, they'll never be sure. But they are saved from the silent threat of Will Graham by the sharp, metallic sound of their home phone. Alana is the one to pick it up.

"Hello?" she says. When she hears Jimmy Price's voice on the other end her heart doubles its pace. "Yes?… What? What do you mean, they found… Oh." Unconsciously she presses her hand against the wall by the phone jack. "Yes. I get it. I get it…. I…" Despite herself she feels a vindictive hope in her chest. "...No. Of course I'm going to tell him. Bye, Jimmy."

Margot touches Alana's shoulder, frowning. "What was that about?" she asks. Alana puts her arm around her and sighs.

"Our trump card."

xxxxx


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Hannibal is standing with his back to his and Will's adjacent wall, close but not quite touching the concrete. He can never bring himself to come in contact with the walls of his cell; he knows for a fact that it's been six months since they were last cleaned. But nevertheless he stands, with just barely an inch between him and the wall, trying to contact Will.

He won't speak; he tried that, but Will wouldn't answer. He knows that Will is awake and can hear him, considering he can hear the rustling of the FBI case papers on the other side of the wall, but Will has remained stubbornly mute. Hannibal respects this, to a point- but he passed that point at least an hour previously. He has a vague idea of what Will is doing, and a vague hope that it corresponds with their rushed plans of escape, but Will's persistent silence and the fact that he is obviously studying the case files leaves an unease that is intolerable. So he waits just beyond the wall, because he knows that Will knows he is there.

After a stretch of time that seems to blend into one unbearable moment, Hannibal hears Will on the other side. He wordlessly presses a sheet of paper flat against the wall between them, and a sigh of relief escapes Hannibal. He knows what's happening now. On the other side, Will lets the paper slide to the floor and then dumps the rest of the file on top of it. Hannibal hears the papers sliding every which way in a massive torrent, and he can't help but smile.

"Alana won't like that, Will," he says into the settling silence.

They both know she's coming back. The situation is too desperate. Nearly ten people dead in a month, and she's no closer to catching the person responsible. They also both know that if Will was cooperative, they would have the Tooth Fairy behind bars in perhaps two weeks. Alana knows it as well, Hannibal thinks. She is reaching the end of her thread, and Hannibal of all people understands that desperate people do desperate things- especially if their morals are taking such a heavy blow.

Hannibal hears the crackling of paper. Will is seated amongst the wreckage that was once the Tooth Fairy's file. He imagines that Will is staring at the photos, which have fluttered to the ground right-side-up, showing in all their gruesome glory the work of the Tooth Fairy. He wonders if Will is gathering information, and who, if anyone, he'll choose to share that information with. He turns around so that he is facing the wall between them, the grey-tinged white concrete filling his vision.

On the other side, Will can feel Hannibal's eyes on him, and he purposely doesn't respond. He has his back to the wall, sitting cross-legged on the floor amidst the scattered paper. He wonders if Hannibal will try to speak again. He imagines Hannibal misses conversation terribly- Will has been deliberately silent for some time now. In the part of his mind that works in an orderly fashion, with the cause-and-effect thinking that he associates with Hannibal, his close-shuttered behavior is part of the plan. A joint escape effort seems less likely if they're not on speaking terms. And, to a degree, it's true. But on the other hand, he knows that he is trying to avoid the visions of Alana and Margot's murder.

It's not the death of Alana that bothers Will so- to the contrary, the fact that she shot him in Palermo remains a constant unpleasantness whenever the scarring in his chest shortens his breath. But for some reason, the existence of Margot as an unrelated civilian continues to put an unease in his stomach. It just seems senseless to him, almost to the point of distaste.

He'll go through with the plan anyway. It's too good of an opportunity to let go to waste. But Will can't help but think that he isn't quite sure what will become of him and Hannibal once they are free to go wherever they please.

Will sighs, and he feels as if he's sinking even deeper into the wall with every exhalation. Across the floor from him, flung so far it's nearly under his bed, is a photo of the hours-old Jacobi crime scene, and from this distance Mrs. Jacobi's features melt into Alana's. Will closes his eyes.

It isn't real. It doesn't matter. He and Hannibal have a plan. For the plan to work he needs to focus. Alana will come back.

They'll be ready.

xxxxx

"All right, Will, get up. We need to go."

Alana stands with her arms folded in from of Will's cell, looking to the ceiling for patience. Behind her is a small army of police officers, hospital security, FBI agents, and Frederick Chilton, armed with a trolley, a straightjacket and a mask. They have been there for half an hour now, trying to rouse Will and get him out of his cell. Hannibal is sitting on his bed with his hands folded, alert, interested and highly amused. Will appears to be asleep.

Despite Chilton's muttered protests, Alana steps over the cautionary line and approaches the plexiglass wall. She glares at Will, who is lying on his bed with his shoulders hunched, facing the wall. He breathes in deeply, and it almost sounds like a derisory sigh.

"Will," she says again. "You heard Doctor Chilton. You're being transported to Buffalo to read the Jacobi crime scene. If you don't get up right now we're going to have to use force."

"He isn't very well-rested this morning, Alana," Hannibal says from the other cell, his eyes on Chilton, who is staring back with what he obviously thinks is a composed intensity. "Hearing your proposition hardly left him in a state to sleep."

Alana doesn't deign to give Hannibal a response. Instead she actually raps on the glass of Will's cell wall with her fist. Chilton raises his eyebrows. Even the orderlies seem surprised.

In the depths of the cell, Will stirs.

One of the security officers steps forwards. "Stand in the center of your cell with your hands behind your head, Mr. Graham," she says. "You know the drill."

Blearily Will swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands up, looking as though his body weighs a thousand pounds as he attempts to move it. Slowly he shuffles to the center of the floor, his arms in the air and his eyes still half-closed. A few guards move to open the lock and cautiously approach him. Once they've determined that there is nothing in the cell that he might attack them with, one cuffs his arms behind his back and begins to lead him out into the hallway. Everyone takes an unconscious step back. Hannibal, on the other hand, stands up and moves as close to the glass of his own cell as he possibly can, to the point that he can just barely see Will at an oblique angle. Will is walking slowly, his head tipped forwards, still half asleep-

And then with a sharp twist of his arms he's free of the guard. Chilton and Alana jump back, the officers draw their guns- Will is fully awake now, moving faster now that his deception is over, and they move to keep him from escaping down the hall but he's going in the opposite direction, adrenaline pushing every thought from his mind but the endpoint of his goal-

Hannibal is waiting for him when they meet on either side of the glass. Will presses his palms against it and leans forwards, and now nothing's separating them but the ventilation holes and they're closer than they've been in three years-

Their lips meet -and part against each other- and Chilton fumes.

The kiss lasts barely a second- before they know it the officers are dragging Will away, double as harsh to make up for their discomfort. Alana strides over and puts herself between Hannibal's cell and Will, not sparing a glance for either of them, her expression as molten as it is icily furious. Her eyes seem to burn. Chilton looks as though he doesn't quite know what to do with himself anymore. He places himself awkwardly to one side, glaring at Hannibal in a way that suggests there will be markedly unorthodox "therapy" sessions in the future.

The officers slam Will into the trolley with unnecessary force, and tighten his restraints to the point that breathing is difficult. Will manages to grin broadly at Hannibal before they force the mask onto his face, and then there is a brief moment of calm when he is fully secured.

Chilton takes this opportunity to come forwards to face Will. This is the angriest any of them has ever seen him; it is as if the realization that he can't control them -and never could have controlled them- is crashing down on him all at once. He raises an arm, and for a moment it is as if he is going to strike Will across the face, but then he catches sight of Alana's face and masters himself, though not without great difficulty. After another tense moment Will and his envoy begin to make their way down the hall, leaving Hannibal alone and acutely aware of the void to his right where Will's empty cell stands.

Though his and Will's separation isn't what he imagined, Hannibal can't help but smile a tight-lipped smile. He remains standing in place for quite some time, his mind working furiously behind calm eyes. In his mouth he can feel the paperclips Will passed to him tightly pressed between the flesh of his cheek and his lower jaw, in the pocket of space just below his teeth. He knows that when Chilton returns after seeing Will and the FBI off at the airport, he will send Hannibal to solitary confinement as punishment. Everything is working out perfectly.

xxxxx

Will and Alana sit alone in the back of the SWAT car. No one dared question it; Will is so heavily restrained that he could barely swallow, and everyone knows Alana could more than handle herself anyway. They ride at the center of an armored envoy, the truck so heavily reinforced that the interior is nearly soundproof. Alana sits across from Will, leaning forwards as if she's deep in conversation with him. But her eyes are on his knees. Will himself is leaning against the metal wall, gazing at the ceiling like there is nothing more interesting than white-painted steel. Every time they hit a bump in the road, he is uncomfortably jostled and the straps of the straitjacket cut into his arms and neck. He hates it, and he hates Alana despite the fact that she is working according to his plan.

"You know what you're doing once we get to Buffalo, don't you?" Alana asks about a half hour into the ride to the airport, her voice swallowed immediately by the deafening silence. Will nods. In an odd way, her businesslike tone is adding a familiar feel to this uncomfortable circumstance- here they are, Will Graham and Alana Bloom, off to read a crime scene. It's so normal it's disconcerting.

"No one else wanted this, you know," Alana continues. "They wanted to let you sit and rot. You wouldn't believe how many people would sleep easier knowing you'd never see the light of day again."

Will doesn't respond, but in a drawn-out way his eyes refocus on Alana, like a camera lens as it zooms in to take an intimate shot. Alana returns his dead stare.

"You're going to help us," she says. "You have to. It's in your nature."

"My _nature_ ," Will echoes, as if he's going to explain the phrase. "Chilton said something to the opposite effect a few months ago. He thinks I'm inherently evil. He says Hannibal 'awakened my latent tendencies.'"

"You're not evil, Will," Alana says, and it's almost gentle. It feels to Will like she hasn't had the chance to be gentle in a long time. "Morality doesn't apply to anyone who exists beyond it." She watches Will's face for a few moments, and as she looks on it seems to draw invisible shutters until he is completely closed off. She sighs.

"Could I have saved you, Will? If I knew?"

Will smiles, though it is difficult to do through the mask wrapped around his face.

"I don't think so."

Alana nods. Now it is Will's turn to watch her, and it strikes him with an odd clarity that she is not broken. He understands, of course, that having one's trust so solidly shattered leaves a mark. But she isn't like he was- she is not demoralized, or confused, or vengeful. Bitter, maybe, but it's difficult to exist in the world like they did and not be bitter about something. But no, Will realizes, she is not broken. Some things don't break when placed under pressure- instead they bend, twisting so far that they are unrecognizable. Alana has been bent. They both have.

On the plane, Will avoids looking at any of the officers and agents that are with him. Now that their initial wariness has worn off, some of the common policemen that accompanied them regard him with a sort of helpless curiosity. He understands them- they want to see how human he is. Does Will Graham blink and breathe and feel like us? Does he sense eyes on him and quail under the shameless scrutiny? It is a natural reaction. Will can almost hear their subconscious questions inside his own head.

But the eyes of the FBI are not the only reason Will feels uncomfortable. He specifically avoids Alana, and not for any fault of hers. As they near Buffalo -and the Jacobis- she begins to appear to him more and more as a corpse, first with waxen yellow-grey skin, then with stiff fingers and limp hair, and finally she has become like the vision from his nightmares, like the bodies of Mrs. Leeds and Mrs. Jacobi. And when he accidentally glances into her eyes, he can see himself reflected in the mirrors and he looks monstrous.

There is a massive crowd of press at the airport when they land. The news that Will Graham is leaving Baltimore State Penitentiary for the first time in nearly three years has spread fast. The officers do the best they can to keep the crowds at bay, but Will is unmistakable in his heavy restraints, and the photographers get a few close shots of him that will surely make fantastic front pages for tomorrow's news. A few shout to get his attention, anything from merely his name to asking whether he and Hannibal copulate in pools of blood. For the first few minutes, Will is able to tune them out, but soon their voices overwhelm him.

Will closes his eyes. The sheer number of people is having more of an effect on him than he initially thought it would. After the near-isolation of the hospital, having nearly a hundred people so close to him is putting him on edge. The officers know to give Will a wide berth as they escort him to the next armored car, but the swarms of reporters just beyond the FBI's barriers are causing his ears to ring and his vision to blur. A few times, when the noise of the crowd reaches its peak, he sees the reporter's eyes and camera lenses as bright, harsh mirrors, reflecting light into his face and blinding him. Eventually he closes his eyes and waits until he is safe inside the transport vehicle.

The ride to the Jacobi house is short, but during that time the officers seem almost concerned for Will's wellbeing. They watch him in their peripheral vision, noting the closed-off look in his eyes and the way he watches the back doors of the van as if he's waiting for the next wave of reporters. He seems even more unstable now than during the incident with Hannibal at the hospital, and it makes them wary. But the officer's brief understanding of Will dissipates when they arrive at the Jacobis' and they have to bring him to the main room where the Tooth Fairy did his work -the bedroom- and then he is alone with Alana again.

"May I have privacy, please?" he asks quietly. There are still bloodstains on the bed, and they call his attention to the point where he can't look at anything else.

"No," says Alana. Will sighs. There is a moment of silence in which it becomes clear that neither of them is going to give in to the other, and then Will inhales deeply and closes his eyes, and when he opens them again he sees a family of corpses with mirrors for eyes.

xxxxx


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Hannibal waits politely for Chilton to return after Will has gone. He sits on his bed with his legs crossed at the ankle, keeping his tongue carefully in place at the center of his mouth. Instinctively he would like to explore the foreign objects still concealed in his cheek, but he knows that that kind of abnormal behavior is what the watchmen pride themselves on noticing. He isn't worried about his lack of verbosity- he and Will often punished Chilton with the silent treatment, and Chilton won't see this time as being any different. And besides, with Will gone, Chilton will become overconfident; he has dealt with Hannibal as part of a force of two for so long that he has forgotten the damage Hannibal can do on his own.

It doesn't take long for Chilton to return. Within two hours he is back in front of Hannibal's cell, toeing the boundary line as usual, armed with a contingent of orderlies and security here to take Hannibal to a "therapy session" that will undoubtedly entail some kind of crude attempt at intensive-treatment manipulation. But perhaps Chilton is aware enough to notice something particularly savage in Hannibal's expression, because he refrains from berating Hannibal for his misconduct earlier in the day. He merely nods stiffly and watches as Hannibal is trussed and prepared for "therapy."

In the therapy room Chilton doesn't speak for a long time. He doesn't sit and attempt to "reason" with Hannibal, he doesn't go on a tirade about Hannibal's lack of public appeal, he doesn't threaten Hannibal with loss of privileges or the dreaded common ward. But after several tense minutes he drops a letter on the table with a stiff arm and uses a single finger, trembling with indignation, to push it towards Hannibal.

"I pride myself on running a secure, prestigious institution," Chilton says, his voice clipped and cracking. "I consider the doings of my patients to be my number one priority. The psychiatric world _relies_ on me to provide a standard of care and surveillance. And _you_ -" Chilton swallows, and it seems as if he's choking on what he has to say next. "You have _some_ how breached that security."

Hannibal says nothing.

" _This_ came for you in the mail today," Chilton taps the letter, which crackles thickly. Whoever sent it stuffed it tight. He leans in across the table, his eyes narrowed and his voice lowered. "Now, I don't know how you are bypassing my staff to keep up this correspondence, but I assure you, I will not tolerate it any longer and you will _tell me who sent you this_."

Hannibal still doesn't say anything. He merely studies the envelope, intrigued and more than a little amused by the fact that Chilton assumed so easily that he was able to bypass security. He wishes he could touch the paper -get a scent or feel its weight on his fingers- but the heavy straitjacket presses him into his chair. After a moment Chilton snatches the envelope back and tears the top open, fishing the folded newspaper from inside with his thumb and forefinger. He unfurls the creation like he's opening an uncharted map, and his eyes go wide. Hannibal watches, and hides his curiosity.

"Well, Doctor Lecter," Chilton says after a long while, peering over the top of the paper. "It seems your correspondent is more than slightly upset with you." He places the newspaper on the table by its edges, and Hannibal leans forwards to read.

"So he does not enjoy being called 'the Tooth Fairy,'" Chilton continues, more to himself than to Hannibal. "He is- what did he say?" He glances over the paper with a nearly-amused gaze. "Yes. The Dragon." He smiles. "And he has contacted you because of your affinity for Mr. Graham. Fascinating. It seems you were correct, then- he seeks an audience. And he has found it in the two of you. The only two people -according to him- who can possibly bear witness to his _ascension._ " Chilton rests his hands on the table, utterly thrilled with himself at the articulation of his findings, his previous anger all but evaporated at this new development. Hannibal finished reading long before Chilton finished speaking, and he is looking up at him with that ever present curiosity. How this changes things, he cannot be sure, but he knows that Chilton's self-satisfied "academic" interest in the Tooth Fairy's- no, the _Dragon's_ fascination with him and Will will most certainly distract him. And like that, Hannibal makes his decision.

It will happen tomorrow.

xxxxx

It will happen today, Will knows.

He is sitting in a Buffalo Police Department station in a temporary holding cell, alert despite the sleepless night he had. Though part of the night was spent in meticulous planning, the moon filtering through the far window was still nearly-full, and Will was borne towards it like a moth -or the Tooth Fairy. And in the early hours of the morning, when the station began to fill with officers, he found that he couldn't see their eyes, only glinting and dark like obsidian was wedged beneath their eyelids.

It is a Sunday. Though his reputation preceded him quite a bit, as was to be expected, Will isn't treated with quite the same nuclear security in Buffalo as he was used to in Baltimore. Jack Crawford is a distant name to the officers of the Buffalo police, only significant in the newspaper articles that ran during Hannibal and Will's trial. Most of the senior officers managed to justify their absence, leaving a very nearly understaffed police force in the station to keep an eye on Will. And at eleven o'clock, he finds his target.

"Hello, Mr. Graham," the man says, sitting down at the desk opposite the holding cell with a newspaper and his hat in his hand. Just the greeting alone gives Will the indication he needs. He inclines his head in return, careful to keep his arms loose and slack against his sides. Stiffness indicates awareness, and awareness is almost always a sign of preparation. The officers are trained to notice preparation, Will knows.

"I was a cop," Will says suddenly, looking up at the officer. "Once."

"Were you?" the man replies, not taking his eyes off the paper. "What made you quit?"

Will smiles. "Too many bodies." The newspaper stops rustling as the officer appreciates the irony of the statement. The silence is like a bear trap creaking open.

Carefully, respectfully, making sure that he does not startle the man, Will stands and approaches the bars of the cell. He keeps his hands at his sides and open, his eyes slightly unfocused and his shoulders relaxed. He is composed and calm, and under his collar he feels his pulse quicken only slightly. As he advances, the officer stops what he is doing and looks up.

"Sorry," Will says, averting his glance. "Didn't mean to startle you." He rolls his shoulders, forcing another smile. "Just needed to move a little. I haven't gotten much personal space these last couple of days." His eyes narrowed, the officer nods. Will strolls along the length of the cell, stretching his arms. "How long have you been in the force?

"Three years," the man says. "Three years and six months, actually." He leans forwards across the desk almost unwillingly, as if his mind and his body are not quite in sync- as if Will is exerting a magnetic pull. Will nods, beginning to pace in the other direction. He glances at the clock on the wall behind the officer. Eleven twenty-two. In eight minutes they'll be giving him lunch. He cocks his head, feeling the muscles in his neck contract and stretch along the lines of his spine. His tongue runs along the tips of his teeth.

"You hungry?" The cop breaks the silence this time, his fingers tapping an uneasy rhythm on the desk. Will allows a grin to flit across his face, but he still says nothing. He glances at the desk. There is a key ring on the right hand side, near the man's hand. Will can only assume one of the keys operates the squad car he can see out the window in the parking lot.

The clock ticks away on the wall, louder and louder in Will's ears until everything else comes over as if he's underwater. He watches it like a cornered animal watches for an opening to bolt, his mind aflame behind his unassuming expression. At a few minutes past eleven-thirty, the cop slides out from behind the desk with the key ring on his finger, sighing heavily. Will hears him like a foghorn through the haze of his plan.

"All right, Mr. Graham, I'm sure you know the drill by now," he drones, clearly reading off a mental cue card. Will drags his eyes away from the clock to focus on the officer. "You're gonna stand facing the wall, feet apart, hands above your head. I'm coming in to cuff you now and then I'll be getting you your lunch. Understand?" Will nods quickly, already moving away from the cell door. The officer keeps a hand on his gun as he twists the key in the lock and enters the cell, drawing handcuffs as soon as he's inside. Will proffers his hands behind his back and bites back a twinge of discomfort as the cold metal presses against his skin.

"See, you get it," the man says, a bit more at ease now. "Just stick to the program, Mr. Graham, and everything'll be _much_ easier for both of us."

Will chuckles. "Speak for yourself."

The officer smiles to himself and actually claps Will on the back. "Sit tight," he says. "I'm getting your lunch now. You don't move and we don't have a problem."

Will glances over his shoulder. "Can I turn around, at least?" he asks. In his peripheral vision he can see on the desk the care folder given to the police station by Chilton- across the top of the first page in bold red letters is the statement, "under NO circumstances is Graham to be given ANY provisions or shown ANY leniency." Will knows the statement well. It's been uttered many times in his presence.

The officer looks at Will, his eyes darting from the sliver of Will's face that is visible to his bound hands and back again. Will meets his stare with what he hopes is a friendly expression. Finally the officer shrugs and indicates his assent with a jerk of the head. Will waits for him to leave the cell and close the door behind him before turning. After a few moments the cop returns with Will's food to find Will leaning back, with one knee bent and his foot propped against the wall. He grins.

"You know, you've got a real attitude," the cop says, opening the cell door once again and entering. Will smiles in return. For a split second they break eye contact as the officer fiddles with the key, trying to remove it from the heavy lock.

The clock is ticking.

Will acts.

The cell is small; perhaps only four feet across. It is a small matter for Will to propel himself across using his foot as leverage, sending both himself and the officer through the still-open cell door and sprawling onto the floor one on top of the other. For a moment they grapple silently, Will struggling to pin the man using only his knees and the man attempting to reach his gun holster and draw the weapon. They are both winded. But Will recovers first, and before the officer can fully catch his breath Will has kicked the gun away. He takes a moment to smile, bitter and triumphant and full of teeth.

And then he rips the officer's throat open.

As soon as the deed is done Will stumbles backwards off of the man's convulsing body and finds the key ring still in the door. He takes it in one hand and hurries across the room to grab the gun with the other, still struggling to maneuver with his hands cuffed behind his back. Knowing he only has seconds before the few other officers in the building know something is wrong, he grips the gun and cocks it, turning so that it is pointed at the window. He fires three times and the window shatters and then he is leaping up and out, and then he is in the parking lot and almost free.

It only takes Will a moment to find the right key to open the car, and then he is in the driver's seat and shutting the door behind him. He hears shouting from inside the building, and his head swims, but he stays focused. Fumbling blindly he finds the key to the handcuffs and unlocks himself, taking a brief second to rub feeling back into his wrists before putting the car key into the ignition and peeling out of the driveway to the sound of pursuing feet hitting the blacktop behind him.

As he drives, Will frantically wipes at his mouth with his sleeve. He can still taste the skin of the cop at the back of his throat, along with the blood that stains his chin and the collar of his shirt. The unmistakable combination of salt and iron is overwhelming, and coupled with his racing heartbeat and the all-consuming knowledge that he is _free_ , he barely has any idea where he is going. But after several minutes his breathing begins to slow again, and the feeling of serenity that he remembers feeling once on the plane to Sicily- that sense of purpose and utter control, like he pulls the strings of fate- creeps into his mind. He doesn't need to ask himself what Hannibal would do- he knows what _he_ will do.

Will's driving speed slows to a cruise. He sits back in his seat, allowing his mind to become single-track; he has to leave the city. He mustn't look around; it will arouse suspicion. At a red light, he glances into the back seat of the car and finds a discarded police jacket. He puts it on, closing it so that it covers his gore-stained collar. When he is stopped in traffic, he finds tissues in the glove compartment and wipes his face. When he leaves the city limits, on his way to Baltimore, knowing that they'll never find him in the vast expanse of empty land that lies between him and his goal, he allows himself to smile.

xxxxx


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Chilton receives the news of Will's escape half an hour after the fact with a stony indignance. When the FBI is finished giving him all the information they have, he curtly places the phone back on the receiver and begins to make his way down to Hannibal's cell. Along the way, he rings for security to join him and finds that they and Hannibal are already waiting for him when he arrives.

"Well, Doctor Lecter," he says into the expectant silence; neither the guards nor Hannibal know what he knows. "I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that Mr. Graham has made good his escape."

Hannibal nods. "Were there any losses?" he asks.

"One police officer, yes," Chilton replies dismissively. He paces with his hands folded behind his back, pretending not to notice Hannibal's pleased grin. "I worried something like this might happen… and it would seem my fears were merited. I do not like this, Doctor Lecter, not at all. It all seems so… orchestrated."

"Well I hardly think Will could have escaped without some planning, Frederick," Hannibal says. Chilton can barely keep from rolling his eyes.

"Yes," he says. "And that is precisely my problem. I can't believe you are not somehow complicit in this. It bears your mark, I'm afraid. I think that we will have to transfer you to the solitary confinement block until Graham is apprehended."

For the first time since hearing of Will's escape Hannibal's smile slips. For the briefest of moments his lip convulses on itself, a visceral contempt in the expression- if there is anything that repulses him, it is the lack of stimuli of the sterile white walls in the solitary confinement block. But then it is gone and he nods complacently to Chilton, who narrows his eyes at this sudden acquiescence. But his conviction that he is taking the correct course of action overrides any suspicion, and so Chilton gives the order to have Hannibal restrained and taken across the hospital to the solitary chambers.

The solitary confinement wing of the Baltimore State Hospital is separate from the main building, and so one must travel through an outdoor portion in order to get there. It is overall a ten minute trip- fifteen if there are any incidents.

Hannibal watches the officers go through the restraint process with interest, as he always does. He makes a note of every buckle, strap and lock as he is bound, masked and placed on the trolley. He wonders briefly if being trussed and carried everywhere like a show pig is truly necessary, or if Chilton insists on keeping up security appearances. He almost poses the question to the guards, but thinks better of it. It wouldn't do to speak to them now- they are enough on edge as it is. So he allows himself to be carted away as usual, replacing the image of the stale white solitary cell in his mind with one of brilliant sunlight.

He is right about the weather when they reach the threshold of the main facility- it is a beautiful early spring day, with the remains of snow patching the corners and reflecting a fiercely determined sun. Hannibal pauses the turning wheels of his plan for a moment to enjoy it. He can't quite remember the last time he truly felt outdoor air on his skin. The officers move with a brisk pace, moving Hannibal across the dangerous open ground as quickly as they can. He returns to the present. His window is closing.

In Hannibal's fingers is the paperclip Will gave him. He presses it against the fabric of the straitjacket, feeling it poke a tiny hole in the tough material. He smiles before anyone can notice, rotating the clip in the hole to work it open. Soon he has worn away a large enough patch that he can fit two fingers through. He reaches for the buckle holding the sleeves in place with those fingers, undoing it silently. He then widens the hole in the sleeve enough that his entire hand can fit through, and he begins to work on the bindings that hold him to the trolley. When his torso and upper legs are free he shifts to a more comfortable position, feeling electricity run through his limbs at the feeling of freedom.

The door to the solitary wing is rapidly approaching. Hannibal has less than a minute to act. Calmly, as if he is asking about tonight's dinner menu, he uses his free hand to drive the undone paperclip into the eye of the security officer on his right. As the man collapses, screaming in pain, Hannibal twists to face the other guard and grips him by the hair, smashing his head into the metal corner of the trolley. When both men are on the ground clutching their faces, Hannibal quickly undoes the remaining bonds holding his ankles and springs free of the trolley, peeling the remainder of the straitjacket from his body as he bolts for the perimeter of the property. Before the first alarm can finish its cycle he is gone, enjoying the fine spring morning beyond the reach of Chilton's security cameras.

xxxxx

Alana sets down the telephone in her office with stiff fingers, her posture just rigid enough to keep her from trembling. A double escape. Both gone within two hours of one another, because of the stupidity and lack of foresight of men with too much power. She takes a deep breath to calm herself, driving the image of a united Will and Hannibal out of her mind for the time being. The thought occurs to her to call Margot, to ask if she is alright, but it seems like just a distraction. Margot can take care of herself. Alana just wants a reason to turn her back on the situation- if only for a moment.

She knows in the depths of her mind that they won't get caught again. That she is truly on her own, that no one else in the FBI- no, in the world- knows what they are capable of as well as she does. But the memory of Jimmy Price's phone call, just a few short days and a thousand chance happenings ago, keeps her from breaking down and sending a SWAT unit out to look for her escaped killers. She knows they won't be caught. Not by ordinary means. But Alana also knows that the one thing -the one memory- that truly binds her to Will and Hannibal may also be the thing that breaks the two apart.

If she can't catch them, she will try to destroy them from the inside.

xxxxx

Will reaches the outskirts of Baltimore in just under six hours. He doesn't enter the city proper- that would be suicide. But he knows what he is looking for, and he finds it waiting for him with clothes and a map that he doesn't want to know the means of acquisition for, sitting in a lonely bus stop with his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. Will smiles broadly and opens the passenger door without saying a word.

As they are driving, Will becomes aware of the tension that hangs in the car with them, seeming to press down and lift them up at the same time, and he realizes that this is the first time he and Hannibal been this near to each other without a wall separating them in three years. This is the first time since that morning in Italy in another existence that they are able to see and touch and feel. And though his hands don't leave the steering wheel, Will can almost sense, almost imagine what Hannibal will feel like once they can truly meet again.

They drive quietly and quickly, their faces carefully composed and staring straight ahead, the lights on the cop car off to keep attention away. They park the car a few blocks down from their destination. He waits while Hannibal changes out of his prison uniform, and then they exit the squad car and continue on their way, their brisk driving pace carrying over to their stride. As they walk, Hannibal draws nearer and nearer to Will until their shoulders are brushing together, his hand hovering near the small of Will's back. Will doesn't look at him. Not yet.

Night is falling, and the sun is halfway gone when Will and Hannibal arrive at their destination. The lock is easy to pick and then they are inside, standing in the dim, cold front hallway of a house neither of them have ever been to before. And Will finally turns to look at Hannibal, whose expression seems to tell Will that he was just waiting for Will to return his gaze, waiting all along, since Will pulled up next to him on the highway, since the necessary kiss in the hospital. And without words, because they no longer need words now that they can finally see again, Will leans into Hannibal's chest, one hand curled against his sternum, the weight of three years of isolation holding them together. He feels Hannibal's nose and mouth against the top of his head, taking in scent and sensation and finality, and he knows that Hannibal needed this just as much as he did.

They remain intertwined in the dusky room for several silent moments, before the ever-present urgency of the situation finally compels Will to straighten. Hannibal allows him to go, but his hand remains on Will's upper arm as they explore the lower floor of the house. Everything is just as silent and lightless as the doorway. The house is empty. Following the realization, Hannibal seems disappointed- he watches the window with a sort of bored moodiness, as if he has had something taken from him. Though Will understands this, as it does not adhere to their plan, he feels a bit more ill at ease with himself. He finds himself standing next to Hannibal at the window, their fingertips just barely intertwined, and though he draws strength from the contact, Will shies away from the actions that strength might enable.

He isn't sure if he wants the visions to come true.

xxxxx


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

It has been two hours. Alana can't wait any longer. Following the suffocating, dark feeling in her gut, she leaves headquarters without telling anyone and gets in her car. Once she has driven far enough to be out of the city, she pulls out her cellphone and dials her home phone number. She has to be sure. The pounding feeling in her chest tells her she has to be sure.

The phone in her house is picked up on the second ring, and in the brief silence afterwards she knows that Margot isn't on the other end. She takes a breath to still her voice and speaks.

"We're on our way, you know."

"I am aware," Hannibal replies, wandering idly through Alana and Margot's living room as he speaks. "You have a lovely home, Alana. We found children's toys in your bedroom." He smiles. "I didn't know you and Margot had a son."

Alana presses her lips together into a hard, straight line, burning inside.

"I want to talk to Will," she says.

"It's a shame Margot and the little one weren't here when we arrived," Hannibal continues. He is enjoying himself. "I would have loved to see them."

From the doorway to the living room, Will watches Hannibal. He has heard enough to know who Hannibal is talking to. As he watches, Hannibal turns to him and holds out the phone with an amused grin. Wordlessly Will takes it and walks out into the hallway, out of Hannibal's earshot.

"We wouldn't have murdered your family, Alana," he says, speaking quietly and slowly. He knows it's an empty promise, but it's the only thing he can think to say.

"You are the lesser of two evils, Will," Alana replies dryly. "Can -he- hear this conversation right now?"

Will glances back at the living room, then moves further into the hall. It's getting dark outside, and the shadows stretch down the hallway in front of him. "No," he says.

"Good," says Alana. "Listen, Will- I don't know what your feelings are. I don't quite know what _you_ are. But we've discovered something, and I thought you should know."

"What do you want, Alana?" Will asks abruptly. He can hear Alana sigh on the other end of the line, and when she next speaks her voice is much gentler.

"They demolished Hannibal's house a few days ago," she is nearly whispering. Will feels an icy chill form in the pit of his stomach. Something is wrong. "And they found something."

"What did they find, Alana?" Will interrupts her, unsure of why he is so unsettled. There is a long silence before Alana speaks again.

"They found Abigail, Will. They found her- remains." Will stops walking. The hallway seems to close in on him. Alana continues, as if from a thousand miles away. "They were recent, Will, much too recent. Jimmy and Zeller say she starved sometime after you two went to Europe." She sounds almost sorry she's said it.

Will is silent. The hallway is dark, and he can't quite tell if it's because of the disappearing sun or his own stalled thoughts. His senses seem to have stopped working. He frowns, trying to process.

"Thought you'd want to know."

Alana hangs up.

Will stands in the hallway for what seems like a few short seconds, but he knows in the rational part of his mind that it's been much longer. He isn't sure why he is surprised, really- Hannibal's near-chronic inability to tell the whole truth was something he was certainly aware of. But the horror of it deeply disturbs him. It's not that he can't imagine Abigail trapped in a secret room, slowly fading; the horror is that he can.

Will hears the creaking of footsteps coming from the living room and jumps as if he has been attacked, whipping around. He sees the silhouette of Hannibal against the final rays of sunset like a phantasm or monster come to take him away. He takes a shuddering breath.

"Will?" Hannibal says, concern in his voice. He sounds wary, like he has a suspicion of what Alana said. "What happened?"

Will takes a step forwards, all the rage and grief flowing from his body when he sees Hannibal's face. All he feels now is the dull bite of disappointment.

"You left her to die," he whispers, his voice thin and nearly quaking. "You could have made a place for her, and you left her to die."

"We spoke of different realities once, Will, when we were in Italy." Hannibal doesn't ask who Will is talking about. They both know he doesn't need to. "In another reality, there would have been a place for Abigail in our world. She was flotsam, Will- the vestiges of your old life come in on the tide." He takes a step towards Will, who wants nothing more than to fade into the shadows around him so he doesn't have to be near Hannibal anymore. "The place for her in this life was only one of grief and pain."

Will almost laughs. "For her or for me?"

"Yes," Hannibal says simply.

"We could have saved her from that fate," Will says. "She suffered enough in her old life. She didn't have to suffer in our lives too."

"That's what I was saving her from," Hannibal says. He reaches out, but Will shies away. "She wasn't a killer, Will. The world that we've created would've only been horror for her." He reaches again, and this time he grips Will's hand. Will doesn't pull away, though he hates himself and Hannibal for the comfort the touch brings. They stay like that for a moment, as night falls in earnest. Finally Will gathers the strength to pull away.

"Please, Hannibal," he says, and Hannibal looks up at the sound of his name, his expression indecipherable. "Leave me alone."

Hannibal nods slowly, stepping backwards away from Will. They linger a bit longer in the hallway, and it feels awkward and sad, like the silence after a funeral service. When he can bear it no longer, when he feels as if he is suffocating, Will turns away, walking towards the back of the house, towards the door to the backyard. It doesn't feel like an escape from the suffocating, though; to him it feels like he is only wading deeper.

xxxxx


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Alana eventually finds Margot and their son Morgan on a brief impromptu errand and insists they get into the car with her. Now all of them are on the way to their home, with Alana praying that bringing them along wasn't a mistake.

"When we get there," she says in a low voice, trying not to disturb Morgan, who is seated on Margot's lap. "Stay in the car. Please."

Margot stares at her. "And you're going in?" she asks. Alana doesn't answer, and she shakes her head. "I can't promise anything," she says. Alana sighs.

"I'm trying to keep you away from the horror, Margot." She can't quite look Margot in the eye; she feels like if she does, it'll be the last time she sees her. "I don't want horror in your life." She smiles. "That's my job."

Margot shakes her head again. "You blame yourself." It's not a question. "But that doesn't make you an island. Let a SWAT team handle it- let them shoot the two of them full of holes if they have to. But don't-" she reaches across the van to squeeze Alana's hand. "Don't kill yourself while you're killing them."

Alana puts her hand over Margot's and sighs again, trying to let the silence resolve her conflict for her. After a moment she pulls away and reaches into her pocket, retrieving her gun. She hands it to Margot, out of view of Morgan.

"Please don't use it," she says. Margot nods and pockets it, pulling Morgan closer to her as she does so. Alana leans back against her seat helplessly, wondering whether her plan has begun to take effect. She feels slightly remorseful about manipulating Will with the news of Abigail's painful end, but at the same time it was a necessary evil- it is much easier to conquer Will and Hannibal when they are separated, as she discovered in Italy. From Will's deafening silence following the revelation, she thinks she sowed the seeds of doubt deep enough to leave a mark. She hopes he will not hate her too much to help her kill Hannibal.

A few minutes later, just around the corner from their house, out of sight of the windows, Alana and Margot sit in the car, the horror seeping through every inch of them. Morgan has fallen asleep; they carefully placed him in his car seat and let him be, praying their crisis would leave him be.

"If you kill them, you'll lose your job at the Bureau," Margot says as if it will change Alana's mind.

"I know," Alana replies. "But it won't matter anymore. Anyone can do what I do there, but only I can do this." She inclined her head in the direction of their home. Margot sighs. "And I won't kill Will," Alana continues. "Him I can bring back. He..." She struggles to find words to fully grasp Will's nature- or at least, what she hopes Will's nature will be. "Will is diseased," she says finally. "Cancerous. If you remove the cancer, you remove the symptoms."

"Not always," Margot counters, not looking at Alana.

"No," says Alana. "Not always."

For a moment the silence sits on top of them in the car and chokes them, together in their fear and anger. But stronger than the weight of any apprehension is the force of Alana's shame and guilt, compelling her to open the door and get out. Before she can leave Margot catches her arm.

"Half an hour," she says softly, her lips pressed together. "And then I come in for you." Alana nods, knowing not to argue. Then she closes the door and turns away. _If I look back I am lost_ , she hears herself say silently. _If I look back I don't go forwards._

The house looks like a monster, Alana thinks- or perhaps it is the knowledge of what looms in its pitch windows. The front door is open; clearly one or both of them is waiting for her. Without pausing Alana steps through the threshold of what should be _her_ house. But though she owns it- though she paid for it herself and made her life in it- she feels unwelcome. She is a spectator, like a ghost come back to where they once stayed when they were alive.

Alana must admit to herself that she is frightened.

Slowly, as quietly as she can manage, Alana makes her way through the dark, silent hallway towards the back staircase. She has the distinct feeling that someone is watching her; though who it is, she cannot say. She feels naked, not just in body but in mind. It is once again a ghostlike sensation. She is transparent, and her enemies are smoke that passes right through her.

Alana reaches the bottom of the stairs and looks up into the gaping maw of the second floor. Something clicks in her mind; there is someone upstairs. She hopes it is Will.

The stakes creak agonizingly as Alana ascends them, giving away her position with a certainty that makes her cringe. She turns right at the top of the stairs instinctively; this is the way to her and Margot's room.

"Will?" she dares herself to whisper to the silent hall. There is someone in her room- she knows it with every primal compulsion and instinct. "Will?"

There is silence.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, Alana enters her bedroom.

Something is wrong.

The room is _dripping_ shadow- they seem to pool in the corners at the floor and ceiling, scattered only by the wane light of the moon shining through the back window. Every sensible nerve is screaming at Alana to turn back, to step away, to run. But she can't. She has to fix her mistakes- the mistakes of the Bureau, of the hospital, of human nature. She takes another step into the room, moving around the bed towards the window, which looks out over the backyard and the trees and houses beyond it. Alana thinks she sees a figure standing in the grass below, and draws nearer to better see who it is.

Too late she sees that it is Will.

"It's been a long time since I've seen you in the bedroom, Alana."

Alana turns around.

Hannibal seems to melt out of the shadows beyond her bed as if he were made of them. Alana's hand shoots to her pocket, to her gun- the gun she gave to Margot. The floor is falling away beneath her.

"Where's Will?" Alana whispers furiously, as if it will help her. She steps back, towards the window, and on the other side of the bed Hannibal advances in a mirror image.

"Why?" Hannibal asks, and it strikes Alana with an odd humor that he sounds jealous. "Do you wish to discuss Abigail?"

Alana can't answer anymore. Her throat is closed; all her organs seem to be shutting down. All she can hear is the creak of floorboards beneath her's and Hannibal's feet. Suddenly his shoulders tense, and she knows what he is going to do before he does it-

He's too fast, much, much too fast. He is vaulting over the bed and then he is in front of her, so close she can see his molten, furious eyes, and then he is gripping her almost gently, but so tight that she cannot hope to get away, one hand on her chin and the other around her torso. He holds her close, and she feels the knife against her stomach before his hand moves, and then it is at her neck and pressing and pulling and she feels something hot filling her throat-

With a vicious, feral rip, Hannibal opens Alana's neck and spills her across the bed.

The amount of blood and air that rushes past Hannibal's fingers when he presses them across her throat tells him he hit his mark- her windpipe has been cut open. Her lungs will fill with blood. He lingers, holding her for just a few more moments as she convulses against him, letting her understand the full force of his anger towards her. He could have just wounded her, if he had wished- he could have merely left her with a cruel, ugly reminder of her mistakes- but the look in Will's eyes, the cracked, sad betrayal, pushed his hand towards murder.

He lets Alana go. She collapses onto the floor, her fingers scrabbling desperately at her throat as if she can close the gaping wound- as if she can stop what's happening to her. He steps over her delicately, leaving her grasping for him, though whether it is out of anger or a final plea for help, he couldn't say. Without saying anything else he leaves her there next to her bed and exits the room. Now that she will surely die, there are far more important things to attend to.

Hannibal knows Will is in the backyard, trying to confront and untangle his feelings. It pains him that Will does not see the necessity of Abigail's sacrifice- yes, the method may have been overly cruel, but there was no other way. Hannibal stops at the bottom of the stairs and glances out the open back door to where he can see Will, hands in his pockets and wandering aimlessly, lost more in his mind than in his physical surroundings. But Hannibal doesn't go to him; he knows it would be tactless to approach, no matter how much he would like to. Instead he turns away and heads for the kitchen to wash Alana's blood off his hands.

As Hannibal runs cold water over his stained fingers, he wonders what it would be like to kill Will. If Will cannot make a place for himself in this world with the knowledge of Abigail, there would surely be no other option. They cannot exist like this- resentful and wary, but unable to be apart. It would be suicide for the both of them. Hannibal decides there- if Will cannot find his forgiveness, there will be no more place for him, simply because Hannibal wouldn't be able to look at him anymore.

Footsteps in the doorway rouse Hannibal from his thoughts. He turns, his entire body lifting at the idea that Will has returned to him, a small smile already forming on his face-

Hannibal is met with the barrel of a gun.

Margot's eyes flicker from Hannibal's face to his bloody hands and back again.

"Where's Alana?" she hisses, the words like ice, her finger on the hammer of Alana's gun. Hannibal takes a step towards her, his posture changing until he is something predatory, but Margot doesn't flinch.

"Upstairs, I think," Hannibal replies coolly. He hopes Margot will run- that she will hurry to save Alana, forgetting everything in her desperate fear and love, and that he can kill her while her back is turned- but Margot doesn't run. She merely readjusts her aim and moves forwards.

"You," she says, quiet and sad. "You tore us all apart. Me and Will. Alana and I. And now Will and yourself." She sighs, almost like she is appreciating the irony. "You're the plague- you destroy everything you touch."

"Margot-" Hannibal tries to make a move but Margot follows him with the gun, always pointed at his chest.

"You don't get last words," she says dryly. She pulls back the hammer of the gun. "You take and you take and you take. You don't get anything back."

xxxxx


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Will freezes when he hears the gunshots.

Margot is already gone by the time he gets to the kitchen. At first, all he sees is an empty room. But then he hears ragged breathing and turns to see Hannibal clutching the countertop in an effort to stay standing, five red spots like flowers blooming across his back.

The world is ending.

Without thinking Will crosses the kitchen to Hannibal, letting him lean his full weight on him as he helps him away from the counter. Hannibal grips Will's forearms so tightly it's painful, but Will doesn't feel it. Suddenly Hannibal loses his balance and is on his knees, and Will kneels with him, allowing Hannibal to rest his forehead on his shoulder. Hannibal is gasping for air, his fingers trembling as they hold on to Will, and Will realizes that some of the bullets must have hit their mark. Hannibal is dying.

The world is ending.

Will feels tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, hot and bitter and angry. The grief of Abigail is nearly driven out of his mind- it is nothing, nothing compared to this. This is not what he wanted. This was never what he wanted. He has a compulsion to leave Hannibal, to get up and try to find medical supplies, bandages, anything that might help- but he knows, somehow, that it would be pointless. They are beyond saving. All that is left is comfort.

"I'm sorry," Will says, and he says it because he means it but also because he's not sure what else to do. Hannibal raises his head, and it looks like it took all the strength he had to make the movement.

"No, Will," he manages to say. There is blood in his mouth. "No. I'm sorry." Then he collapses again, and Will sighs and strokes the back of his head.

Slowly Will becomes aware that someone is watching them. He lifts his head, tearing his eyes away from Hannibal, to see Margot standing in the doorway, her hands drenched in blood and her face blank save for two tear tracks, inked in with mascara, burned into her cheeks like scars.

"It's the end of the world, Will," she says. Will notices the gun in her hand and his insides burn.

"I should kill you," he whispers, clutching Hannibal tighter to himself.

"But you won't," Margot sits down against the wall across from Will, watching him with dead eyes. "Alana drowned," she says. "He cut her open and she drowned in the blood."

Will doesn't answer. He is staring down at Hannibal again, his breath catching in his throat.

"I'm sorry," he says again, to Hannibal and to Margot and to Abigail and to himself, and he thinks he sees Hannibal smile.

It is a moment before Will realizes that Hannibal's heart has stopped beating.

There are no words. Will feels something violent and angry building in his throat, like the urge to scream. He looks around wildly, unwilling to let go of Hannibal's body, his mind struggling to catch up with what his senses are telling him. No. _No._ There is rage and fear and loss but above all is the grief, like a tidal wave hitting him square in the chest. First Abigail and now the unspeakable has happened, and Will isn't sure if he wants to kill himself or Margot first, but he can't bring himself to move. And he looks up at Margot, at her clouded, cold eyes, and he sees himself reflected in them, and he feels monstrous.

xxxxx

The FBI arrives eventually, bringing with them an ambulance for Alana and Hannibal and a shock blanket for Margot- and handcuffs and a mask for Will. There isn't much of a struggle; Alana and Hannibal are pronounced dead on the scene and Will is dragged away to the familiar sight of the back of a van. He doesn't fight it; he doesn't need to anymore.

When he gets to the van and the doors open, he sees Hannibal sitting inside waiting for him, dressed not in the bullet-riddled shirt of a few minutes earlier, but in an impeccable suit, his chest clean and whole and his hair combed back. Will smiles at him. As he is strapped into a jacket and cuffed to the bench, Will watches Hannibal, drawing strength from the amused glow in his eye. The agents pay Hannibal no mind- none see or touch him. When they approach, he merely steps aside and allows them to pass, all the while grinning at Will. If Will cranes his neck, he can see Hannibal's still corpse being loaded into the ambulance. But then he turns back and sees a version of Hannibal that is alive and well, sitting in the van with him. He doesn't look at the ambulance anymore.

Will doesn't struggle when they return to the hospital; he is compliant to the point of being comatose. He is relegated to the bowels of the hospital, sitting in the dark, completely alone. He doesn't speak or bite or any of what the staff has come to expect of him- he merely sits, his hands folded in his lap, staring at a wall that, this time, has no one behind it. Some of the orderlies say it seems like he is waiting for something.

And so eight years pass in this manner, with Will alone in the dark, kept alive by a bitter grief and an all-consuming rage. Sometimes he escapes into what he can only describe as a memory palace. Sometimes Hannibal is there; sometimes not. But he isn't uncomfortable- he doesn't feel the need to escape. He doesn't feel anything.

Then, one day, for the first time in countless months, Will hears something that interests him- the sound of heeled shoes against the floor, clicking down the long hallway. Not since Alana has he heard this. Suddenly Hannibal is next to him, leaning towards the sound, listening intently. Will doesn't move.

Soon Chilton comes into view, and he is accompanied by a woman. The woman is young; she stands toeing the boundary line with a folder clutched in her arms, her face anxious but with a resolve that intrigues Will. She steps forwards.

"Will," Chilton says. "This is Clarice Starling."

Across the cell, seated in a mirror image of him in a beautiful chair made of shadows, Will sees Hannibal again. He is smiling.

"Hello, Mr. Graham," Starling says.

Will turns to look at her.

-END-


End file.
